“A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman he turns her back again.” –Enid Bagnold
I’m sitting in my stuffy room after school. As Nickelodeon cartoons flicker from the old tv in the corner, I riffle through my closet, squeezing between the Barbies and shoes, making my way to the back. I pull my Easter dress off of the hanger, hopping back out onto the carpet. I pull the dress on, fluffing the sleeves that my mother painstakingly sewed, and toss my uniform aside. Peeking from my door, I race down the hallway to the bathroom to admire my gown. I comb my hair and make sure the bow is tied perfectly at my waist, and then sneak back to my room. I hide quietly, listening for the familiar crack of the front door opening. For no particular reason, with no particular plans, I sit and wait for my dad to get home from work. Maybe it is because I think this is what a princess does. Maybe I just want to wear my dress more than one day that year. Mostly it’s because he’s my dad and he’s coming home from work.
I sit with crumpled brown paper book covers making my legs itch. Binders surround me and my eyes feel heavy. Frantically trying to finish homework before Letterman’s Top Ten, I scribble on the couch across the room from my father. He turns on Sports Center and I continue to work, procrastination becoming a familiar foe. He turns the volume down and begins to tell me about whatever game is being recapped. And about his day. And that leads to stories about college, or childhood before cable, or the years when I was too young to be up this late. Then it’s movies he loves, the books they remind him of, the art classes he once took. Some stories are old, ones I’ve heard a dozen times. Others are new, adding a new dimension to this man whose known me since I was an amorphous cell cluster. Some are favorites I love each time and others I tune out as I continue work. Only now do I realize what a sacrifice that was, staying up so late and getting up so early, working so hard and forgoing his rest to talk with me.
I’m hot and tired and sore and hiking the longest trail I’ve ever seen. I want to cry and shower and be anywhere but here. He laughs along with the boys in my class, leading the hike with them while I lag behind with my friends, hating the camping adventure. I hate them for being with him, hate him for wanting to be with them. I hate this trip and the nettles that scratch legs and everything. Then he drops back, slowing himself down, leaving the guys whose company he’s enjoying, and brings up the rear with us. He’s a favorite chaperone, and enjoys the time with the class, and decides to lag behind.
I head out to visit him at a conference. With no work, I have nothing tying me to the city so I head out. He has sessions to attend, but we walk through the town and find a restaurant to enjoy dinner. We talk about our weeks, what I like to drink, my brothers, the people around us. We venture through a park, posing with the statues we find there, snapping pictures in the chilly drizzle. We watch a marathon of Lock Up, laughing and riveted by the documentary of our prison system. We go to dinner at a museum, he networking and me perusing the exhibits. I put on a dress I bought a year before but never had reason to wear. I want to look professional for the executives at the conference. I want to look business-like, or fashionable, I’m not quite sure. I just know that I’m still dressing up for my dad, simply because his work day is done. I am always a daddy’s girl.