Sitting here at my desk in my office because my dear, wonderful wife loves me and wants me to fulfill my dream as a writer. Inspired by what I have been reading: My own accounts of campus ministry - conversations at the Cave with Andrew the Barista, Mike the Marxist, Christian the Buddhist and Greg the Wiccan. My heart is strangely warmed as I recall the lively and passionate debates we had on the couches at the entrance to the cafeteria (a.k.a. "Cave couches.") The fire in my chest is kindled again as I picture the Agnostic, Eastern Orthodox, ex-Mormon and Druid who recently joined me on those couches.
I read about past Mexico trips. Pages and pages of adventure and excitement. Harrowing accounts of risks taken, obstacles overcome, disasters averted and narrow escapes. I smile and laugh as I think of my side-kick Leo and the experiences we've shared "south of the border."
Then I stumbled across it. It catches me every time. There must be a lot of dust down here in the office - probably from all these books - because my eyes are tearing up. I just re-read a college English paper written by my oldest daughter, Amanda. The assignment was "satire." You don't normally confuse the satire genre with "tear jerker." But in this case we must make an exception.
Here it is. The names are changed to protect the guilty. I call it "Daddy's Girl" but her original title is: "Just Give Me my Care Bear Chair"
What difference did my dad’s intense admiration of his baby girl –me –make? I was just a baby –I didn’t care that my daddy thought I was the most beautiful thing in the world. Years later, why would I possibly care to hear about my first night in the world when my dad took me out to show me off to all his friends?
During the first few months of my life I’m sure I would have felt just as secure in a one size fits all plastic swing as in my daddy’s big, strong arms holding me tight against his chest.
I didn’t need my daddy’s lap to crawl into when I didn’t know where I belonged –my fuchsia pink, Care Bear chair would have done just as well.
It would have been to my advantage if I had learned to read “Hop on Pop” to myself rather than bringing it to my dad time after time. After I was taught to look both ways before crossing the street, there was no point in my dad walking beside me holding my hand; that only reinforced my dependence on men.
I should have learned to wipe away my own tears, comfort myself with my teddy bear after a bad dream, and sing to myself in the waking hours of the night. After all, my dad wouldn’t always be around to pray with me before bed or play his guitar for me when I was restless and couldn’t fall asleep. Knowing that he wouldn’t get mad when I came to his side of the bed after a nightmare, set me up for failure when I moved away to college and found that my roommate didn’t appreciate being woken up at 3am because of a bad dream.
I should not have had reason to expect my dad to show up at every one of my piano recitals with roses in hand –this has only prepared me for a life of disappointment when my husband comes home without flowers on our anniversary year after year.
If I had learned to stand up for myself when I was 9 years old and Little Johnny told me I should love him, my dad wouldn’t have had to intervene. Then I would have been afraid of close relationships with guys and would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble.
If I thought I needed foundation, mascara, and lipstick to be beautiful –then by all means I should have believed it to be true. I could have thought for myself rather than my dad telling me I was beautiful without make-up.
When I was a junior in high school, it wasn’t necessary for my dad to take me to the father-daughter dance. I would have gladly stayed home and watched “Little Women” so I could remain ignorant of my dad’s incredibly enthusiastic dance moves and keep my classmates from becoming jealous that I had the coolest dancing dad in the world.
When I was lying on the couch feeling so sick I was sure I was on my deathbed, I could have easily comforted myself by reading “Enoch Arden” (complete with all the voices) to myself if my dad hadn’t been there.
I could have told that boy I didn’t want to go to the dance with him. I didn’t have to ask my dad to tell him for me, so I didn’t. And I went to that dance and I loved every minute of it –especially the parts where he danced dirty with other girls and then came to me for the slow dances, and when he wouldn’t take me home when I wanted to go. You wouldn’t believe all the good experience I got from that one date –it made me eager to accept all future offers promising a good time.
During my senior year, I would have been fine without my dad to help me with my pre-calculus homework. Having to get up early and go in to see Mrs. Fay before class every morning would have taught me discipline and the value of a granola bar at breakfast rather than the toast, eggs, pancakes, and waffles my dad made each morning.
If my dad had not listened about my latest crush, I could have filled the pages of my diary much quicker than I did. If he hadn’t told me I was perfect just the way I was, I would have focused on my appearance more and would have probably had more dates leading to fulfilling long term relationships.
It brought warm fuzzies to my heart when my dad cried while he gave a speech at my high school graduation, but warm fuzzies are only temporary. The satisfaction I could have had if I had made it through school all my own would have lasted forever.
When I was homesick and crying in the dorm parking lot away at college, I would have been fine without my dad answering the phone and telling me he loved me and that everything was going to be alright. Because of times like those, I’m insecure about who I am and to whom I belong.
In the future, I think it will be highly profitable for me to walk down the aisle by myself –with both my parents where they belong –in the pews on the sidelines. I won’t need my dad to validate the beauty of my someday daughter –her Grandpa’s opinion of her would only make me love her for foolish reasons –like the size of her baby toe or the way her finger clasps mine.
I’m sure my husband will agree that our daughter should not be brought up as a “daddy’s girl” like I was. Girls don’t need their dad’s to hold them, hold their hand, or hold their heart –there are plenty of Care Bear chairs to go around.
***** Dad's Comments *****
We didn't set out to raise a writer. Though her mother and I certainly wanted all of our children to develop a love for books (beginning with "Hop on Pop"). I wasn't competing for "Father of the Year." But it's great to be somebody's hero. Especially when it's your daughter.
Thanks, Amanda, for being my guest author today. You not only bring back "tear-jerking" memories of growing up in the Lundquist Family, you also demonstrate the power of satire and wit. As Mark Twain observed, "the art of making your audience feel your point, as well as see it."
I read about past Mexico trips. Pages and pages of adventure and excitement. Harrowing accounts of risks taken, obstacles overcome, disasters averted and narrow escapes. I smile and laugh as I think of my side-kick Leo and the experiences we've shared "south of the border."
Then I stumbled across it. It catches me every time. There must be a lot of dust down here in the office - probably from all these books - because my eyes are tearing up. I just re-read a college English paper written by my oldest daughter, Amanda. The assignment was "satire." You don't normally confuse the satire genre with "tear jerker." But in this case we must make an exception.
Here it is. The names are changed to protect the guilty. I call it "Daddy's Girl" but her original title is: "Just Give Me my Care Bear Chair"
What difference did my dad’s intense admiration of his baby girl –me –make? I was just a baby –I didn’t care that my daddy thought I was the most beautiful thing in the world. Years later, why would I possibly care to hear about my first night in the world when my dad took me out to show me off to all his friends?
During the first few months of my life I’m sure I would have felt just as secure in a one size fits all plastic swing as in my daddy’s big, strong arms holding me tight against his chest.
I didn’t need my daddy’s lap to crawl into when I didn’t know where I belonged –my fuchsia pink, Care Bear chair would have done just as well.
It would have been to my advantage if I had learned to read “Hop on Pop” to myself rather than bringing it to my dad time after time. After I was taught to look both ways before crossing the street, there was no point in my dad walking beside me holding my hand; that only reinforced my dependence on men.
I should have learned to wipe away my own tears, comfort myself with my teddy bear after a bad dream, and sing to myself in the waking hours of the night. After all, my dad wouldn’t always be around to pray with me before bed or play his guitar for me when I was restless and couldn’t fall asleep. Knowing that he wouldn’t get mad when I came to his side of the bed after a nightmare, set me up for failure when I moved away to college and found that my roommate didn’t appreciate being woken up at 3am because of a bad dream.
I should not have had reason to expect my dad to show up at every one of my piano recitals with roses in hand –this has only prepared me for a life of disappointment when my husband comes home without flowers on our anniversary year after year.
If I had learned to stand up for myself when I was 9 years old and Little Johnny told me I should love him, my dad wouldn’t have had to intervene. Then I would have been afraid of close relationships with guys and would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble.
If I thought I needed foundation, mascara, and lipstick to be beautiful –then by all means I should have believed it to be true. I could have thought for myself rather than my dad telling me I was beautiful without make-up.
When I was a junior in high school, it wasn’t necessary for my dad to take me to the father-daughter dance. I would have gladly stayed home and watched “Little Women” so I could remain ignorant of my dad’s incredibly enthusiastic dance moves and keep my classmates from becoming jealous that I had the coolest dancing dad in the world.
When I was lying on the couch feeling so sick I was sure I was on my deathbed, I could have easily comforted myself by reading “Enoch Arden” (complete with all the voices) to myself if my dad hadn’t been there.
I could have told that boy I didn’t want to go to the dance with him. I didn’t have to ask my dad to tell him for me, so I didn’t. And I went to that dance and I loved every minute of it –especially the parts where he danced dirty with other girls and then came to me for the slow dances, and when he wouldn’t take me home when I wanted to go. You wouldn’t believe all the good experience I got from that one date –it made me eager to accept all future offers promising a good time.
During my senior year, I would have been fine without my dad to help me with my pre-calculus homework. Having to get up early and go in to see Mrs. Fay before class every morning would have taught me discipline and the value of a granola bar at breakfast rather than the toast, eggs, pancakes, and waffles my dad made each morning.
If my dad had not listened about my latest crush, I could have filled the pages of my diary much quicker than I did. If he hadn’t told me I was perfect just the way I was, I would have focused on my appearance more and would have probably had more dates leading to fulfilling long term relationships.
It brought warm fuzzies to my heart when my dad cried while he gave a speech at my high school graduation, but warm fuzzies are only temporary. The satisfaction I could have had if I had made it through school all my own would have lasted forever.
When I was homesick and crying in the dorm parking lot away at college, I would have been fine without my dad answering the phone and telling me he loved me and that everything was going to be alright. Because of times like those, I’m insecure about who I am and to whom I belong.
In the future, I think it will be highly profitable for me to walk down the aisle by myself –with both my parents where they belong –in the pews on the sidelines. I won’t need my dad to validate the beauty of my someday daughter –her Grandpa’s opinion of her would only make me love her for foolish reasons –like the size of her baby toe or the way her finger clasps mine.
I’m sure my husband will agree that our daughter should not be brought up as a “daddy’s girl” like I was. Girls don’t need their dad’s to hold them, hold their hand, or hold their heart –there are plenty of Care Bear chairs to go around.
***** Dad's Comments *****
We didn't set out to raise a writer. Though her mother and I certainly wanted all of our children to develop a love for books (beginning with "Hop on Pop"). I wasn't competing for "Father of the Year." But it's great to be somebody's hero. Especially when it's your daughter.
Thanks, Amanda, for being my guest author today. You not only bring back "tear-jerking" memories of growing up in the Lundquist Family, you also demonstrate the power of satire and wit. As Mark Twain observed, "the art of making your audience feel your point, as well as see it."
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