Daddy's Girl

Daddy made up a song for each of his children. When I was a baby and he'd sing to me, I'd smile, throw up my chubby arms, and gurgle with happiness.

In the seventh grade, my dad would drive down the dim roads at 5 in the morning to take me to basketball practice. We'd listen to 50's and 60s music during the drive and I fell in love with Dion and the Belmonts, the Chordettes, and the Temptations. The catchy lyrics soon stuck with us, and we carry them in the back of our minds to this day.

In the eighth grade when we were consulting a surgeon who would remove my thyroid, I cried out of a sudden immense fear right before the operation. The fear I felt about going under the knife was nothing compared to the fear I felt when I saw my dad was crying as well. I've never felt my heart break as it did in that moment.

He cooks pasta for our family every Sunday, partially out of habit, partially out of love, but mostly because he can't bare the thought of not eating pasta on Sunday. That'd be outrageous. We always dance to Sinatra or Andrea Bocelli or whatever other music our moods bring while the pasta boils. He truly is my dance partner in this life.

It's quite possible that we're both the most absent minded people on the planet. I'm dreadful at directions but he has the absolute worst memory, so I suppose we tend to balance each other out, I remind him when he does things twice and he lets me know where we are when we're on car drives.

He'd never let me watch an episode of Mad Men by myself, even if he's already seen it. Who else would point out all of the historical references and sing along to the occasional 50s/60s song with me?

We split the New York Times every Sunday morning, but he always beats me to the front page and the Sunday Review. That's okay though, I don't mind the Arts section. Daddy also rarely asks twice when I ask if he'll buy me a book, because he thinks knowledge is a real investment. Knowledge is priceless and so are the moments I spend with my father. I wouldn't trade our relationship for the world, even if his morning whistling never ceases to irritate me.