Everyone's heard the phrase 'Daddy's little girl', usually it conjures up images of a spoilt brattish child with pigtails, sporting a pink floral dress of sorts, with chocolate smeared all round her mouth.
I'd like to think I was my Daddy's 'little girl', but the above image is as far removed from my childhood as I can stress. My dad has three daughters, myself being the middle, I imagine if confronted he'd say we're all his 'little girls', then make some form of joke relating to our mental ages or retardation of some kind to emphasise he's 'no softy'. I've always been close to my dad for as long as I can remember, he was my first ever role model. My mum's great too, don't get me wrong, I love them just as equally. However, I have these memories that, only now when I speak about them, and watch my friends reactions, do I realise how much of a great guy he is. I was never a girly girl, and this is probably what brought us closer when I was younger. Having no sons, my dad probably saw my tomboyish side and thought 'Great! Someone to teach about cars after all!' Unfortunately I'm not a brilliant driver, but that's irrelevant.
One of my earliest memories is of mornings when I was probably around 6 years old. My dad's job required him to get up around 5.30, and I clearly remember waking up hearing my dad getting ready and creeping downstairs to join him most mornings, well I think it was most mornings. While other parents would probably usher their child back up to bed and demand them to sleep longer, my dad used to make me a replica of his cup of tea in my miniature mug, chat with me whilst eating his Weetabix, ruffle my hair, give me a kiss and tell me to have a good day before heading out.
The mornings where I wouldn't wake up before he left, I would head downstairs for breakfast to find four little post it notes spread out on the table. The first stating 'A' and a kiss, the second stating 'J' and a kiss, the third stating 'E' followed by a kiss, and finally the last with another 'A' followed by, yes, a kiss. These notes must have been my dad's way of ensuring we knew he'd said goodbye to each of us before leaving for work. Sometimes these initials would be accompanied by doodles related to what that person would be doing or what was happening that day. For instance, if it was snowing, you might find a skier braving a treacherous slope in the corner. If I had a school trip, I could expect a little caricature of myself sporting a big smile on my face and a pair of wellies, jumping in a muddy puddle.
Thinking back now, I don't know how my dad had time to squeeze all this doodling into his morning routine. Before I start work I'm lucky if I have enough time to jump in the shower, and half the time I'm left running out the door with wet hair and an empty stomach. Not only did he draw these notes, but he prepare our individual packed lunches, 'our' being my older sister, my mum and me, later on it included my little sister too once she started school, so this wasn't light work. The initial theme was carried on here too. If you were to open the fridge in the mornings you could expect to see sandwiches lined up side by side, with our initials inked onto the cellophane wrap. Inside the bread my dad would only put fillings he knew we liked. I wasn't a really fussy eater as a child, but I picked up my dad's eating habits. One day I heard him say he didn't like strawberries, I've not eaten a strawberry since. The same goes for tomatoes. They're probably not that bad, in fact, if I tried them I'd probably quite like them, but somehow I don't think I ever will.
Growing up my first ever best friend was a boy. A couple of years ago, whilst having one of our reminiscing sessions he mentioned a memory of his which I had obviously failed to retain. In this memory we were about 5 years old and attending infant school. Apparently it was a reoccurring incident, where my friend would ask me if I would marry him. This was long before we knew about the complications of relationships, and merely thought that marriage was when a girl and boy just were allowed to live together and play with Playdough or something as much as they wished. Each time he proposed I would decline, prompting him to ask why. Apparently the reason for my denial was because I was going to marry my dad. Pure and simple. Today that is a gross connotation of incest and everything else. But when I think back to the fact I was so sure of it at five years old, reiterates how highly I must have thought of my dad.
One Christmas I received an Etch-a-sketch, or a similar magnetic drawing board. At the same time I was going through an obsessive Elephant stage, Dumbo being the source. Without fail, for about 3 months, my dad would patiently draw me elephants on the board before bed. He's good with bargains like that - he knew that no elephant would mean no bed time. But rather than hurriedly draw a circle with a pipe nose, he spent time showing me line by line how he compiled it. My dad isn't an artistic man, but I'm pretty sure these memories are part of the reason why I'm studying Illustration today.
You're probably expecting him to have calmed down now, having taken retirement, finally taking time out for himself. This is far from the truth. He still amazes me with the effort he puts in to me and my sisters today. If I go home I can expect a meal of bangers and mash arranged in a smiley face, just like I did ten years ago. I've received food parcels at uni with faces drawn on the veg accompanied by a little post it note with a doodle. Even a food parcel, which I've walked 2 miles to the postal sorting office to pick up, to find it filled with a bag of lolly pops.
My dad's better than your dad. I hope he never grows up.
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