“Every girl has daddy issues,” my co-worker stated in the middle of Whole Foods, where we had gone to grab Kombucha while on break.
“I don’t,” I said.
He looked at me as if I was a freak. How could he understand me and my issues and sensitivities if he couldn’t automatically attribute them to my dad. It made me laugh.
Guys are silly. Not every girl has a complicated relationship with her dad or didn’t get enough love and affection from him. In fact, some of us have such an esteemed view of our dads that most men pale in comparison. They will never live up to the man who shaped my childhood and treated me like a princess. So I guess if you want to call that daddy issues then I guess I DO have them.The issue is that my dad is too amazing.
My dad was the first example I had of how a man should behave. What his responsibilities were, how he should treat women, his work ethic, and most importantly, how he should raise his kids. I wish everyone had been raised by someone like my dad because we would probably have a lot less pain and suffering in the world. He never raised his voice, not once. When my siblings and I were behaving badly we received a stern word or two, but most of the time we just never misbehaved around him because we respected him too much.
My dad is the original Don Draper, minus the drinking problem and emotional unavailability. He got up everyday at 7am to shower and put on a clean white undershirt. His hair was perfectly parted on the side and had been in the same style for so long that he no longer needed to comb it into place, but he still did, of course. Every morning he shaved his face. I’ve never seen him have a 5 o’clock shadow in my entire life. He wore a full suit everyday, and wore perfectly shined shoes which he used a shoe horn to get into. Then he would have his coffee (never more than 2 cups) and read the newspaper. I would sit and watch his routine on days when I didn’t have school. It was fascinating. This is how a real man starts his day.
On the weekends he would mow the lawn/rake the leaves/shovel the snow depending on the season, fix the screen door, change the oil in one of the cars, or throw a baseball back and forth with one of his sons. He came to all of my games, recitals, gymnastics meets, and plays. He never missed anything, which is crazy considering he has 5 children. If I had a track meet out of town that lasted until nighttime, he would be there at the school waiting for me when the bus got back. He would go outside and warm up the car for me and scrape my windshield in the wintertime before high school.
As his only daughter I was his favorite. He couldn’t have been more proud of me, no matter what my interests and talents were. One time, in 8th grade, I was in the running to be the best high jumper in the city of Indianapolis at the final meet of the season. When it was between me and two other girls, I saw my dad out of the corner of my eye pacing the bleachers back and forth in a secluded area where no other spectators were sitting. He could barely watch, because he wanted so badly for me to win. One girl scratched, and then the next girl scratched. It was my turn. I made it over. I won! My dad would never scream or yell or jump up and down, it just wasn’t his style, but I could tell he was so proud of me. They raised the bar another inch. It was just me alone, in a competition with myself to catch the city record. I scratched all three jumps. I was a little disappointed in myself, but still happy that I won. For the next week or so, my dad kept showing me on his measuring tape how close in inches I had come to the record. “You were only off by this much,” he would say as he showed me the 2 inches that would’ve made the difference. He wasn’t telling me how just a little more would’ve broken the record, he was showing me how good I was and how close I had become to being the best.
My dad is probably worried on some level about the career choice that I made, the challenging city I live in, and the fact that I am not following the same model of adulthood that he and my mom did. Most dads worry about the protection and finances of their children, and especially their daughters, well into adulthood. But even though it’s probably not the stable life he had imagined for me, he has never once been negative or unsupportive about it. He may not understand my dreams, but he appreciates that I’ve had the courage to follow them.
My dad taught me how to ride a bike, how to fish, how to skate, and how to chew with my mouth closed. When I was first starting to drive, and before Google Maps, Mapquest, and Garmins, my dad would draw detailed maps for me to help me get to where I was going. He read bedtime stories to my brothers and me every single night. He and I would go on bike rides through our neighborhood together and watch new episodes of Seinfeld every Thursday. Just him and me. He would even take me on “dates” when I was a little girl. Out to dinner and the movies. There wasn’t a moment where I didn’t feel special.
At age 33, I still need my dad’s help. If I have car trouble, apartment issues, questions about my taxes etc., he is the first person I call. When my car broke down in the middle of the 101 freeway in the middle of the day, I called him before I even called AAA. Even though we don’t talk every single day, I know he will drop everything he’s doing to help me if I need him.
My dad is blind as a bat. Literally legally blind. He wears contacts until they irritate his eyes, and then he switches to the most ridiculous coke bottle, magnifying glasses. He passed that amazing gene onto me, the only child who also has blue eyes like he does. What gift that has been, Dad. Thanks!
My dad loves bananas and peanut butter, Jim Beam and Diet Coke, and The 3 Stooges. He loves to BBQ, watch Indiana sports teams play, play softball/baseball, run, talk about the weather, and most importantly, he loves to hang out with his kids.
No daddy issues here. My issues can be attributed to everything BUT that. My only issue is that I don’t get to see him as often as I would like.
Thanks, Dad, for being my role model, supporter, friend, and hero. I wouldn’t trade you for anything.