Girls and their daddies

Today's 100 words:

I've always been a Daddy's Girl. From the moment I was born, my dad and I seemed to share a special bond. He was the only one who could quiet me when I was colicky, and he would interrupt his work each day and go home for a while to rock me and give my poor mom a rest. I was the first girl, and my mom said that the evening I was born, my dad raced to the store to be the first to buy me a doll. Today is my dad's seventy-seventh birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!

My hero

I wrote this morning's 100 words about my dad and learned that 100 words just isn't enough to describe how much he means to me:

 

I've always been a Daddy's Girl. I remember following him around outside, talking a blue streak and copying whatever he did. Soon after my sister was born, my mom captured a photograph I'll always treasure. It shows a three-year-old me, sitting in a little red rocking chair placed in front of the green chair my father is sitting in. He's holding my baby sister and feeding her from a bottle, and I'm mimicking him, cradling my favorite baby doll and using a tiny white bottle to feed her. Even then he was my hero. Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

Daddy's Little Girl

Today's 100 words:

I am the oldest girl in my family, and I remember being twelve and seeing the look on my father's face when he noticed I was wearing makeup--a flash of sadness, another of nervousness at what the makeup meant: certainty that I was growing older, maybe becoming interested in guys--and I knew that in that second, my dad was worrying about the years to come, visualizing a procession of boys knocking on his door, then whisking his daughter to who knows where for who knows what. And I understood--I really did--but I still wore the makeup.