If Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend, What are Fathers?
My dad and I have always been close. I was the one who begged to be taken along on fishing trips, hunting expeditions, journeys to Cabela's, and all that lovely stuff the average little girl would never consider doing. I'm his only daughter among three boys, though I am not the youngest child. Oh, no, instead, I'm the shortest... >.<
Anyway, we hang out a lot, and talk about everything and anything, no matter how grossed out it may be to me or how uncomfortable he may feel on a certain subject; we always discuss what's on our minds and share what needs to get off our chests.
If the man had been born 30 years later (and wasn't my dad), he would be my greatest friend in the entire world. Instead, he's 48, fat, easily amused by the stupidest things, and most importantly, the number one man in my life.
... Ew, you perv, not like that! :-P
I was taking a creative writing class in high school, and we were asked to write a personal short story. I decided to write about the two of us in all our amazingly awesome glory, and just what happens when a little girl thinks she has to grow up. Comments are greatly welcome and appreciated, but remember, this is a memory of mine, and it's taking quite a bit of courage for me to share it with everyone.
Without further ado, please enjoy the show.
"Emily, Emily, Emily Diane!"
Dads are strange creatures. Or maybe it's just mine. For years, he's been calling me Emily Diane. Don't ask me where it comes from, I have no clue. Sure, I have other nicknames. But those ones make sense. ... Sort of.
"Hey, geezer, I'm too old for that," is my usual response. Not that he's listening to me; he's off in his own little world now... Oh great...
"She's my litle winkie doo!"
I could protest for hours. Average elapsed time is about ten minutes before he moves on to another nickname, or something else to sing about. After X amount of years, you just let him continue. I mean, come on; you have to let the old man have his fun, right?
When I was little, he would work excruciatingly long days. Gone when I awoke, home in time to tuck me in. Not so grand for our relationship.
... Wait, I should probably explain something before I continue...
I'm my father's daughter. We do all sorts of things together, when we can. Put us near each other, and you'll never get us apart. My mother and I look close, but we really aren't. About the only thing I have in common with her are 23 chromosomes. ... Does that even count?
So, Dad was home by bedtime. Before he got anywhere close to walking in the door, I'd be showered/bathed (depending on my mother's mood), have my hair and teeth brushed, pajamas on, and Mama Peanut Butter (my 3' tall teady bear) in my bed with the covers over her face. I'd be hiding in the closet.
It was a game we played. He'd lay on my bed, pretending to believe MPB was me, then fake sleep until I hopped on his back.
But it was more than just that, to us.
"Rosie Posie Puddin' Pie, kissed the boys and made 'em cry!" he'd sing as he flopped on my bed. "Why, you're not my Rosie! Oh well, guess I'll just have to sleep here," whined Dad as he pulled back the covers to get to me, only to find MPB lying there. Then commenced the loud, obnoxious fake snores.
As quiet as a 5 year old can be, I'd stealthily crawl from my closet to my bed. Ever vigilant, in case the big guy stirred, I'd work my way into a standing position, crouching enough for the initial strike...
Jumping onto his back, Dad would squiggle his way to the floor, then run around on hands and knees, bucking and jumping like a bronco, with me clinging to his shirt for dear life, squealing and screaming and shrieking in sheer delight. Every so often, he'd stop and say, "Where's Rosie?" I'd giggle, and the wild ride would continue.
Eventually, with both of us exhausted, our game would end. Dad would carry me over to my bed, tuck me in, give me oodles and oodles of daddy kisses, then shut the door on his way out. I'd fall asleep shortly after.
Then it happened.
On a nigth like any other, Dad walked into my room and came to lay on Mama Peanut Butter, like he alawys had. But when he pulled back the covers, I was there. I sat up, folded my arms and said, in my most grown-up voice, "Daddy, I'm too old for this now." At the time, it made sense. I wanted to be a big girl, and big girls don't play silly bedtime games with their daddies, right? Poor Dad, he looked like I'd slapped him on the face, he was so crushed...
Don't you ever look back and thing, "If only I'd let it live just a bit longer... If only I wasn't in such a hurry to grow up." After all my experiences, my growing up, I wish I could turn back the hands of time and take all those "I'm too old for this," statements and chuck them in a paper shredder.
"Emily, Emily, Emily Diane! She's my little winkie doo!"
"Dad, I told you I'm... Oh, I love you too, you dork."
Whenever I think of this story, I think of that song that goes,
"Fathers, be good to your daughters, and daughters will love like they do."
It's extremely true. My dad was always good to me, and still is. If it weren't for his strong leadership, his inability to let me lose my way and his compassion for my well-being, I honestly believe I wouldn't be here typing for you all today. While I can't say the same for my mother, my dad has and always will be right there for me, whether physically or in spirit. In this, I have no doubt.