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WellRed
BY WEB EDITOR KARSEN PRICE
Daddy's Girl
The other day at my softball game, I was concentrating on hitting the ball when I heard a little voice behind me, chanting, “Let’s go, Mommy, let’s go!” Clap-clap. “Let’s go, Mommy, let’s go!” Clap-clap.
During that moment, with the bat in my hand, my munchkin standing behind the backstop cheering me on, it struck me how life can come full circle on you.
Listening to my daughter cheer me on was so amazingly cute that I have to admit, it was hard to concentrate on the task at hand. I didn’t get a great hit. But I did get a great hug — from my own personal cheerleader, who will be 6 years old in a month.
What’s that old saying … the more things change, the more they stay the same? Reverse some 20-odd years ago, and you could find me in the stands of that same softball field, cheering my father on with the same utter devotion that my daughter was now showering on me. I think I drove people darn near crazy, cheering for “Daddy” at the top of my lungs.
I have always been Daddy’s girl … without a doubt, never a question, a Daddy’s girl. For me, there is nobody in the world like my dad, who is friendly and funny and generally dressed in his uniform from work, with his name in red embroidery across the top left pocket.
My dad was my softball coach from the time I was 11 years old until just recently, when a diagnosis of prostate cancer made him re-think where he needed to spend his time. (He’s currently in remission, thank you God.) As much as he loves to watch me play, he is on a mission these days to finish his 1931 Ford Roadster, a mission that I — having grown up at car shows and racetracks — understand completely. He’ll be back at the ball field soon. For now, he needs to be out in his garage. He’s owned pieces of this Roadster since before I was born; it’s about time that thing gets finished.
Being a Daddy’s girl, I had always assumed that my own daughter would never pick me as her favorite. I figured my husband would be the one who got showered with attention, and I would be second fiddle. Like mother, like daughter. And so I accept her devotion — complete with love notes that question, Do you love me, Mommy, yes or no? — with all the deep appreciation it deserves.
Granted, she’s only 5 and 3/4. There are plenty of years left — especially those teenaged years, ugh — for her to switch allegiances. But for now, at least when I’m up to bat, my baby is in my back pocket. And I’m planning on enjoying every second of it.
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