Daddy's Little Girl.

When I was a little girl, my Dad would tuck me in at night. I was quite demanding for a girl my age. There was music to be wound -- two boxes that twirled and a small lamb that played. The lack of harmony never crossed my mind; they were sounds of comfort in the darkness. It never failed that I would ask for a glass of water, sooner than later my Dad learned to have it ready. And, I couldn't sleep without my teddy; Bear Bear was always the companion at my side. My Dad never missed a beat, never let an animal go unfound or music box unturned. In closing, he would tuck me in "snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug," tell me he loved me, and turn out the light. I was always Daddy's little girl.

I went skiing for the first time when I was about five years old. It was soon become the tribute to "father-daughter" time. I can still remember my purple edgie-wedgie, a small piece of rubber hooking the front of my skis together, forcing me to naturally snow plow down the mountain. I remember his patience in teaching me. I also remember the car rides - it was the only time I distinctly remember country music being a part of my childhood. And, somehow, it created a bond between my Dad and me. The drive was only an hour, but we would stop for some treat on the way back -- hot chocolate, candy, or something of the sort. He always packed us lunch, because the slope food was overpriced, and he'd carry it in a little blue cooler, perfect for two. Weekends on the slopes turned into ski trips with mutual friends, conquering "big mountains" in Colorado. I haven't skied for years, but I treasure those moments with my Dad as if they were yesterday.

My childhood is full of adventures with my family -- my Dad standing as the leader over all. Hiking Harney Peak three years in a row, raining on us every time. Weekend camping trips equipped with endless games, laughter, and good food. He never left a detail unthought of. He was prepared for everything, or at least, that's the picture my memory paints for me now. My dad -- the protector, the hero, the one could fix anything. Fishing trips and days at the beach; catching nothing or catching too much sun. It never mattered. We were a family, and together we were happy. The adventure wasn't important, as long as it was being conquered. Even the adventure around our table, sharing scripture in the mornings before my brother and I went to school. The faithful way my dad drove us to church every Sunday. He was a leader, not only as a father and a husband, but as a man of God.

My Dad always pushed me to be my best, and he always lended whatever expertise he had to help me accomplish my goals. I remember nights at the kitchen table, pouring over math equations, or hours spent finding me the right doctors and the right shoes to make my high school running days as pain-free and optimal an experience as possible. He was always there -- cheering me on, pushing me to do better, loving me no matter what. He accepted me for who I was. When I chose to pursue a college education he wouldn't have chosen, he did his best to provide me the adequate resources to make sure it was the best experience possible. When I wanted to transfer schools, he drove the hours with me. The important decisions were made together. My dad pushed me to be my best, and I let him because I have always looked up to him.

Now that I'm getting older I see things I didn't get to see then. The way he loves my mother. The way he loves me and my brother. His gentle heart. His quiet spirit. His attention to detail. His silent way of seeking God -- the way his faith arises in moments spent with family and friends. He thinks before he speaks, and speaks with eloquence when he does. I see the way he has not only pushed me, but the way he pushes himself. He sets goals and he completes them. I get to talk to him, not only as my Dad but as my friend. We share a glass of wine over dinner and talk as if the world will never end. I call him for advice. I call him for answers on simple things, like how to cook a steak. I can come to him in tears. I can come to him with smiles. He is always there, with open arms and a supportive answer. He guides me as I grow. He quizzes me for "big-girl" interviews, and sends me money for professional attire. He tells me that God has a plan; he encourages me to keep praying for the way to go.


My dad is the first man I ever gave my heart to. It's going to take someone amazing, someone completely from God, to force me to give my heart again in the same way. My dad is the best father a girl could ask for, and I know my mother would say he is a great husband. Those are some large shoes to fill, ones I am not quite ready to set out on the market. I like the spot my dad has in my life -- where he is on my speed dial and how he's still the one that can fix everything.

I have always been Daddy's little girl, and I always will be.