By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I both am and have produced a Daddy’s girl.
I should begin with a qualifier: my mother is my absolute best friend, so I suppose I’m also a Mama’s girl. Is it possible to be both? I think it is—especially considering my daughter may be in the same boat. But that’s an exploration for another day, as this weekend we celebrate fathers and the unique, invaluable role they play in our lives. I thought I’d share a few glimpses into my relationship with my father, while sprinkling in moments from my daughter’s relationship with hers. As you read, know that I’m smiling fondly as I write.
I think I’ve spoken before about the date nights I had as a little girl with my Daddy. The details are a bit foggy, but in my mind’s eye, I can clearly picture the swirled ice cream cones we’d enjoy together. I wish I could remember more—whether we went somewhere to eat our treat or if our dates included more than just sweets. Knowing me, the ice cream alone would have been more than enough to satisfy. I do know they were on Friday nights, and I looked forward to them. I hope I would have, even without dessert—but who knows with the mind of a child, especially when that child is me.
My husband and daughter have their own Daddy-Daughter time, and they treasure it. On most Wednesday nights, I have music practice and a ladies’ small group at church, so I’m away for most of the evening. She’s always thrilled—sometimes even from the moment she wakes up on a Wednesday—when I remind her what day it is and what that means. I try not to take it personally when I’m leaving and she’s impatient that I haven’t left fast enough for her liking, eager to commence her fun with her father. Truly, I don’t mind; it brings me joy to see how much she enjoys their special time together. Still, I can’t help but think of those long-ago evenings with my own Dadoo (as I affectionately call him), and our chocolate-and-vanilla swirl cones.
The similarities between the two fathers in my life are interesting. My husband was 37 when he became a father. So was my Dad. My birthday and my Daddy’s are just two weeks apart. My husband and daughter’s birthdays are only four days apart. Both are fathers to one girl. I could sway my Daddy’s opinion with just a flutter of the eyelashes. My daughter may not use the same technique, but her influence is just as strong. For instance, she’s not a fan of storms, so when severe weather is forecast overnight, she sometimes makes a little pallet on the floor of our bedroom—we call it a “camp-in.” Her Daddy insists she be close if there’s any risk, and she absolutely loves it. Now, he’s taken to calling for a camp-in if there’s even a slight chance of rain. I warned him that with typical Southern summers, she might be sleeping on our floor nearly every night. His smile and shrug tell me that he doesn’t mind one bit.
It’s something to behold—a very tall nine-year-old snuggled next to her Daddy in his recliner. It warms the cockles of the heart. I’ll also admit, there’s a certain something stirred in me—maybe no one else feels the same, but that’s okay—when I, a 44-year-old, rather tall woman, gently crawl into my 81-year-old father’s lap. I can hear him now, saying, “Oh, get offa me, girl,” while chuckling as I give him a zerbert on the cheek. (If you’re unfamiliar, that’s when you put your mouth against someone and blow—like a raspberry, but far more endearing.)
The two Daddies in my life couldn’t be more different—in era, in interests, and in more ways than I could list. One grew up in a mid-century, small-town, deep-south Alabama farming family, went to college, and became a preacher. The other was in the Navy and—thankfully, in the past—was a sailor in the truest sense of the word. One loves woodworking and the twang of a fiddle or mandolin. The other works in mechanical engineering and prefers his music on the harder side. And yet, despite their differences, all it took was a little blue-eyed blonde with her mama’s eyes to melt both their hearts of wood and metal like snow in August.
Happy Father’s Day to my two favorite Daddies.
Prose and Possibilities 