I used to joke that my personal ATM was my father's pocket. My mother often used to get annoyed at me and my father because we fought a lot. I mean a lot. It exasperated her that he couldn't do anything without me. Technically, he could never do anything without including his children.
My first apartment was viewed by what my husband jokingly calls the "committee."
My dad liked his bananas green. My mother liked hers a little more ripe. At home, he would start eating the bananas and she would finish them. At work (yes, I worked with my dad for the past decade) he would call me and ask me if I wanted bananas when they got too ripe for him to eat. I would walk upstairs to get bananas. I miss the bananas and the change for the vending machine. He always had an endless supply of change in his desk drawer.
My dad used to take the ferry to work everyday. He did that over twenty years. He was forever bent over his briefcase, writing. I remember once asking him if he saw the sunrise or maybe it was the sunset. I don't remember right now. He seemed surprised but I could be as stubborn in my need to march to my own drums as he was determined to lead a structured existence. I missed the trip to Israel but I did get a post card from him. He missed me. More importantly, he missed seeing the wonders of all the Biblical sights through my eyes. He walked down the Via Delarosa and while reading his post card, my heart smiled as the song played in my head.
If I stop thinking these random thoughts, I have to remember that I am no longer Daddy's Girl. It was my favorite, most loved role in life. Hard to let go of something you love so dearly, but I'm trying.
I remember a story my father-in-law told me after my dad died. My children were, as usual, calling their father. I finally found out the real reason why his children call him by his name instead of dad. He mentioned that maybe he regretted it because of the way it initially impacted his daughter. But seeing him and my sister-in-law, I can say one thing for sure, the only time you stop being daddy's girl is when he's gone.
The voice in my head is sarcastically wishing me luck in my transitioning. Would I be crazy if I told it to shut the hell up?
My first apartment was viewed by what my husband jokingly calls the "committee."
My dad liked his bananas green. My mother liked hers a little more ripe. At home, he would start eating the bananas and she would finish them. At work (yes, I worked with my dad for the past decade) he would call me and ask me if I wanted bananas when they got too ripe for him to eat. I would walk upstairs to get bananas. I miss the bananas and the change for the vending machine. He always had an endless supply of change in his desk drawer.
My dad used to take the ferry to work everyday. He did that over twenty years. He was forever bent over his briefcase, writing. I remember once asking him if he saw the sunrise or maybe it was the sunset. I don't remember right now. He seemed surprised but I could be as stubborn in my need to march to my own drums as he was determined to lead a structured existence. I missed the trip to Israel but I did get a post card from him. He missed me. More importantly, he missed seeing the wonders of all the Biblical sights through my eyes. He walked down the Via Delarosa and while reading his post card, my heart smiled as the song played in my head.
If I stop thinking these random thoughts, I have to remember that I am no longer Daddy's Girl. It was my favorite, most loved role in life. Hard to let go of something you love so dearly, but I'm trying.
I remember a story my father-in-law told me after my dad died. My children were, as usual, calling their father. I finally found out the real reason why his children call him by his name instead of dad. He mentioned that maybe he regretted it because of the way it initially impacted his daughter. But seeing him and my sister-in-law, I can say one thing for sure, the only time you stop being daddy's girl is when he's gone.
The voice in my head is sarcastically wishing me luck in my transitioning. Would I be crazy if I told it to shut the hell up?
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