Daddy's girl

I've been sitting at my desk all morning thinking of my dad for absolutely no reason. He just popped into my head and now I want to talk to him. Mind you, he's probably sitting at his desk at work, praying his phone doesn't ring because good God, how is it possible his (only!) daughter can have this many crises in her lifetime? For the first time ever, though, there's nothing wrong. I just have a hankering to hear his voice.

Throughout the years, my father has been the ideal man. No one on Earth could possibly come close to him, in my eyes at least. For every broken heart, every physical cut or bruise, it was Daddy Dearest whom I turned to for comfort. And through it all, despite my often-overzealous outbursts, my father would stoically listen as I cried and complained and lamented. Not once did he need to offer his pearls of wisdom — he never had to. He was smart enough to know that in my heightened emotional state, I wasn't likely to listen. He just let me cry. And cry. And cry.

A few weeks ago, I was at the lake visiting my parents when I overheard one of my aunts ask Mom about my relationship with Dad. At the time, he and I were sitting side-by-side at the picnic table, sharing chips and dip, laughing about something that at the present moment, escapes me. But during a lull in our conversation and boisterous laughter, my ever tuned ear caught my name uttered to my left, and I strained to hear what was being said.

"She's pretty close to [him] isn't she?" Auntie M. asked.
"Oh she's always been like that, she loves her father," came Mom's reply.

And there it was. She's absolutely right. I've always loved my dad.

When I was little —probably about 8 or 9 years old — I fell off the swing set in my parents' backyard and scraped my knees. It was a minor injury (one I'll bet no one remembers except me), but when I burst into tears and my mother came running to my aid, I started begging for my dad.

When I was 18 and I broke up with R., my first "real" boyfriend, I sought solace from Dad. Likewise with my second and third heartbreaks well into my 20s.

How about the time I moved out of his house to start my job as a reporter in rural Western Mass? He got multiple phone calls daily (each less intelligible than the last) about how homesick I was; what a mistake I made, etc.

Yet he took it all in stride.

He should offer a seminar somewhere so others can benefit from his wealth of knowledge. Surely my exes could have used some of his insight.

It occurs to me that at some point, I should probably call him to thank him for putting up with me these 27 years... a happy phone call, who'd have thought?