Daddy’s Little Girl

I am Daddy’s little girl. The first-born. The only daughter.

While everyone says I look like Mama, I am infinitely more like Daddy in temperament and personality. Daddy and I are people people. We like to talk to strangers. We like to joke. We have both been known to dance spontaneously if the right song comes on.

But what I am not is the bat-your-eyes-Daddy-buy-me-a-mink-and-a-Mercedes type of Daddy’s little girl. Not hardly.

Daddy would not stand for that.

You see, Daddy didn’t buy me everything I wanted. He instilled in me the value of hard work. From mowing the lawn (all gazillion acres of it with a push mower) to scrubbing toilets, no job was too menial, no task too common for his darling daughter. As well it should have been. Daddy made sure I understood that everyone has to pitch in, no matter how laborious the task, no matter how dull, and no matter whether you just polished your nails because, as John Donne would say, I was “a part of the main” and that requires pulling your own weight.

And Daddy didn’t let me slide through school on my good looks and charm. He made sure I learned. From the first books he read to me, trailing the sentences with his finger so I could follow along, through declining nouns and conjugating verbs on past algebra and chemistry until the day I graduated from college,  Daddy always recognized my potential, even when I doubted it. Daddy made sure that I understood the value of an education, even when I was ready to quit. Daddy always encouraged me, even when I failed.

And Daddy didn’t come to my rescue every time I tried to play damsel in distress. Daddy taught me how to change my own tires, how to balance my own checkbook, how to shoot a gun. I learned how to be self-sufficient, to rely on me and only me. I learned that some hurts are too big for Daddy to make better with a band-aid and some Mercurochrome, no matter how much he might want to.  Daddy does, however, kill roaches and snakes, because that’s what daddies do – just so you don’t have to, even though you could.

And Daddy was adamant about manners. Good posture. Elbows off the table. No talking with your mouth full. Speak when spoken to. Be respectful. Why? Well, first and foremost so Brother and I didn’t act like we were raised by wolves. But also because “good manners will open doors that the best education cannot.” Clarence Thomas gets the quote, but Daddy drove it home, every day.

If Daddy had cooperated with my grand life plan, by all accounts I should be driving the coastal highway through Orange Beach in a red Mercedes convertible, with perfectly manicured nails and coiffed locks, on my way to ride my thoroughbred onto a yacht while eating caviar from a silver spoon. But I am not, thank goodness.

I am far richer than that girl. I have been given gifts which will never lose their sparkle, will never wither and fade.  That is why this Sunday, Father’s Day, I will honor Daddy and all the invaluable, intangible gifts he has given me. That is why I proudly proclaim the status of my daddy’s little girl.

2 thoughts on “Daddy’s Little Girl

  1. I just love your column, Audrey. And, further to it, I was having a conversation with someone just today about how I hope if I ever have kids, I have sons. Not because there’s anything with little girls, but I can see myself being wrapped around my little princess’s pinky and never shaking loose.

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