a daddy's girl.

No, I did not forget to write a Father's Day post. I've been thinking about how to begin for weeks now, and I finally (at 12:30 AM) am buckling down to try. I should have planned better; I wasn't prepared for the difficulty of putting into words just how much I love my father. 

On Saturday mornings, I'd wake up at 6. I padded down the hall and through the kitchen in my footies to the living room, where I'd watch cartoons. A few hours later, when the house was alive with happy, busy noise, I'd climb into my dad's truck and we set off into town to do errands. On the way back home, I could see the top of the golden arches as we left town.

"...Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

"Can we go to McDonalds for lunch?"

"MCDONALDS?!?!" He'd pause. "Yep."

"YAY!!! French fries with honey. Strawberry milkshake. Makesuretheygivemethegirltoy, Daddy."

When we got home, it was nap time. Afternoon cartoons until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I'd wake up to the sounds of football, the fire cracking, and sometimes (if we're talking about the perfect day, here), the smell of apple pie.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My dad is a sports guy. And by "sports guy" I mean he is good. I think the word I'm flailing for here is athletic. He was amazing in high school and he's amazing still. He drove me to rec soccer,  basketball, teeball, etc.

I liked seeing my friends, but sports make made me nervous. I wasn't good, and I wasn't competitive. Often, he would ask me on the drive home if I actually liked playing and I would always say yes. I didn't.  Dad, if you're reading this, I'm pretty sure you knew. Thanks for making/letting me go anyway. Anyhow, I realized only a short time ago why I kept saying I liked sports.
I liked the car rides with my dad. I liked getting new sneakers with him. I liked when he would give me pointers after I made a basket...in the wrong basket. I still have a tape from my FisherPrice recording toy, from which you can quickly learn how much I followed in his athletic footsteps.

"Daddy, how come you watch so much baseball?

Dad? Daddy? How come you watch so much....basketball?"

"Football."

"Oh! You like football, huh? Huh? Is it fun to watch?"

"Yep, shhh, quiet now."

My dad is quiet. Talks when he has something to say. The opposite of his girls, who speak incessantly. This, paired with his stature, pretty dang good looks if I do say so myself, and skills, make him one intimidating guy. Ask any boyfriend Phoebe or I have brought into this house. They are terrified, and it is hilarious. 

He is the funniest person I've ever met. Although I thought it painfully unfair at the time, parenting quirks from my childhood make me laugh out loud now.

"8 o'clock, bedtime."
"Daddy it's SUMMER. It isn't even DARK out!"
"You're going to bed. Close your eyes, then it will be dark."

He'd wake me up for school, everyday, until I was old enough to handle the responsibility of an alarm clock.
"Hey, Livia. Hey. Hey. Hey, time to wake up, now." He'd push my shoulder with each "hey."
"Mmmpft. Kay."
"You'd better be up when I come back!"
He ironed his shirts in the hallway; I heard the familiar hiss from the steam in the iron and felt at peace in my mountain of blankets and stuffed animals. Smiled. Then I'd fall back asleep.
"Time to get up! Come on, Alivia!" Now he was serious. The overhead light flicked on, and he threw my blanket mountain off me. Hugged my whining, squirmy body and left for work. He knew I couldn't sleep with the light on.
"Okay!!! Turn the light off before you leave!!! Daddy! DAD!" Too late, he was out the door and I was on the other side of the room from the light switch. How cruel life could be when you were five.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I remember fighting with my dad, a lot, growing up. He might not talk as much as the women of the house, but man can he yell. I was a brat, and he disciplined with time-outs, go-to-your-rooms, groundings and no-desserts. Then I grew up a bit...and I was still a brat. God bless him. I remember being so aggrivated because even though He was SO wrong and NO ONE understands me and this is SO UNFAIR, I felt bad for being angry with him. I would claw my way through an argument, wanting to win, yelling sarcastic, snippy retorts to the injustice that was my life, storm away, slam the door, yell through the door, and then yell at him as he came through the door to yell at me for slamming the door. Then I was alone and I would cry. I cried because I didn't want him to feel bad. I think about this now and it still makes me cry, because he is such a great dad, the best dad, and I am angry at myself for not showing more appreciation for this, even now.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I have since realized that we fought because we are the same, to the core. Stubborn, impatient, sometimes short-tempered. Soft-hearted. We both have insomnia, which is normally cured by a bowl of cereal. At 2 AM. We like bread too much, and mum's pies. Sunshine, waking up early. Exercising, because we love ice cream more. Animals. Music, though he plays bass and all I've ever been able to play is the radio. Being home.

My dad gave me one of the absolute best gifts you can give anyone. Something I wish more parents took the time to do. He taught me how to read. Every single night we read a book. Two books, three books. In kindergarten, we each took a book home to practice for a week. The next week we read aloud to the class. To this day, it is one of my favorite assignments-- I got to read more with my dad. When I think of my childhood, it's always a picture of books on our big blue couch, with Cheers on in the background, an occasional freeze pop. He is the reason I was able to read the 7th Harry Potter book in 8 hours flat, years later. Why I have a hunger to read that will, wonderfully, always be a part of me. Why I love to write.

Strictness, always with a sense of calming comfort. Instilling and emitting respect every second. If I ever find a man that holds a fraction of my father's qualities, I'll be lucky. Honestly, it scares the hell out of me-- how can anyone come close?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

If you're still with me, thank you. Though long-winded and difficult (3 AM is now two minutes away), my unworthy drivel about a man whose greatness I will never be able to explain, was necessary. Too often daughters speak on the subject of their mother alone, maybe assuming their father knows how much they love him. I've made this mistake, though I am learning that it is important to say, out loud, how much you love someone.

Dad, I will never tire of telling people how wonderful I think you are. I am so proud to be a daddy's girl. Happy Father's Day.