Hi. My name is Erin and I’m a Daddy’s Girl. Hi, Erin.
Seriously, though. Look at those pants. He must be cool if he was rocking those striped pants back in the ’70’s (I couldn’t really compete in that Little-House-on-the-Prairie dress they had me in).
Bottom line, that look of delight I’m giving him? The way I’m hanging on his arm? Little has changed in the last 35 years. I’m old enough to know now that no one is perfect, but he does a damn-fine job impersonating it so that I have trouble telling the difference.
My father gave me away twice. The first time is where he earned some of his super-hero status, cause, let’s be real, it was a shit-show. But, he did it anyway because I couldn’t be dissuaded (tragically – See item no. 1). The second time around? Everyone knew I’d hit the lottery so, sorry Pop, no points for showing up on this day. (Note: there is no photographic evidence from said “shit show” because all photos were mysteriously burned and stuffed into a voodoo doll made into a certain person’s likeness. This pic is from my second wedding…the one that did not take place at The Little White Chapel on the Vegas strip and that was not widely regarded as “some of the stupidest shit you’ve ever pulled.”)
So, what is it that causes this daddy’s-girl-itis? Is it that he turned 70 last year and still races cars? Or that I can call him any time with a loaded question like, “so what should I do if the garage door is doing this?” or “why would the washing machine be making that sound?” and his response is, inevitably, “I’ll be over in 20 minutes”? Or that my favorite fatherly advice from him still is “if you wait until the last minute…it only takes a minute”? Or, is it caused by the fact that whenever I’ve succeeded at anything, throughout my entire life, he was never the least bit surprised? Hm. Probably all of the above.
And, to my mother, I say this: I get it. Rest assured, turnabout is fair play and I am now the mother to a 15-year-old daddy’s girl that gives even me a run for my money. And I am the proverbial chopped liver. I guess it’s my own fault, though. I’m married to the second-best man I’ve ever known and I can’t even blame the kid for worshipping her father. (No matter how annoying it is at times.)
So, to all the cape-wearers, enjoy your Father’s Day and enjoy your hero-worship. Don’t doubt that you’ve earned it in a thousand undefinable ways that will likely never be put into words.