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The Truth About the Fact: An International Journal of Literary Nonfiction

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The Truth About the Fact: A Journal of Literary Nonfiction is an international journal committed to the idea that excellence in the art of letters can play a vital role in transforming the planet we share.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Daddy's Girl

Daddy’s Girl
It is natural for a young girl to look up to her mother. Wanting to look, act, and speak like her is a dream that most daughters keep. I like to compare my mother to an angel. She is graceful, kind, and glows from the inside out. She spends her spare time gardening, practicing yoga, and preparing the house for the next upcoming holiday. Although I pray that one day I will magically adopt my mother’s patient ways, I was not born possessing her lovable qualities. I was born a terror.
            As a toddler, I had the might of a grown man. My behavior got to the point that my mom was forced to nail my door shut because there was not way she could keep me from bolting out of my time-out space. I would heave picture frames at the walls as an expression of my anger and my two-year-old rage brought my saint-like mother to tears. My dad was no good at disciplining me until I was older. He would watch my mom and me fight as he would remind her, “Hunny, you’re losing to a two-year-old.” I like to think that the reason my dad didn’t put up a fight is because he knew stood no chance against my spunk.
            You see, to say I am my father’s daughter would be an understatement. I like to tell my dad, “I know you better than you know yourself.” I know that he has learned to control his temper by humming whatever self-composed tune comes to mind first. I know that he only calls my mom, “dear” when he’s frustrated, and I know that he scrunches his nose and clenches his jaw when he’s trying to hold in his not-so-manly tears. I know these things, and everything else because I am the same.
            My dad knew he couldn’t win against me at two because he understood me. He knew I was a heard-headed winner just like him. He understood me, so he was able to help me. Sometimes I would get so angry that my dad would ball up his fist and let me chomp down on the knuckle of his index finger. I would hold my bite until my head shook. Then I would feel better. My dad got me outside. I would play baseball with him for hours. He allowed me to come to every practice and game of baseball teams he coached, and even let me get at bat every once in a while. As I began to grow up, my dad pushed me toward the ore normal, lady-like activities that little girls ought to be interested in. We went to daddy daughter dances, he drove me to the beach multiple times a week to surf, and today he has self-proclaimed himself as “alpha phi dad.”


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