Lessons From Daddy
3 year-old Me
How much is it? he would ask then toss the bulk of folded money in my lap. As if on cue. I would remove the rubber band, sort the like bills, and count the bills. I never got it right on the first try. Nope try again. I can still hear his voice now, deep and soft. His right hand gently gripped the woodgrain steering wheel, driver's seat leaning all the way back, and Mary J Blige’s My Life cassette softly caressing our ears. Riding with Daddy was always the complete opposite than the same experience with Mama. They’d broken up when I was a couple of months old, and couldn’t have been any more complete opposites.
Mama taught me how to count by writing down math problems while we were at home, or quick quizzes during rides to school. Daddy had his own twist. We rode around the city and he would make a quick stop then came back with my math lesson for the day. Always count the big bills first, then the second largest and so on. After I would finally get the amount correct, he would look over and flash his two gold teeth. Good job Punky. Next, it was time to give it back, and I had to get that right too or else I’d have to start all over again. All the bills had to be facing the same direction, large bills always went on the inside, the smallest outside, fold them in half and put a rubberband around it.
At the stop-light or during one of our quick runs for ice cream and candy he’d peel off the one dollar bills and hand them to me. I’d thank him, smile, and put them in my purse. For whatever reason I always felt accomplished. Maybe it was Daddy’s approval that I longed for or completing the task the right way, but either way I felt needed.
“You know Daddy loves you don’t you baby girl?”
“Yes sir,” I would say proudly feet dangling against the leather seats. No one has yet to utter the words I love you the way he did.
From as far back as I could remember up until I was around 9-years-old there wasn’t a time when my Daddy came to get me that he didn’t make sure I returned home with a new outfit, my hair done, and mani and a pedi. Before I even knew what they were. I always went with a light pink because my Mama didn’t allow me to wear dark colors on my nails. “Princesses should always look their best,” he would say. All the latest 90’s fashion from Tommy Hilfiger to Air Jordans, and Air Max sneakers, I had them and in just about every color.
As if my Mama didn’t spend hours making the perfect parts and combing my hair into the neatest styles, hair salon visits with Daddy were one of my favorites. We’d walk in and everyone knew him. Not one male in the room and all eyes were on him. Daddy was my celebrity.
“What we getting this time big girl?” my beautician would ask and prop me up in the chair.
I’d think of something and she’d look at Daddy and he’d agree.
“I’ll be back when you’re ready,” he would say kissing me on my forehead. A few times I could even remember him sitting in the salon until I was ready. He made such a big deal out of my fresh ‘do and I would feel like the prettiest girl in the world.
The first 9-years of my life I was the epitome of a Daddy’s girl and no one could tell me anything different. Around age ten, my trips to the hair dresser stopped, the shopping trips would become fewer and farer. I was no longer his personal accountant. Riding around with him would become a distant memory, and so would his face. To this day I’m not sure why he stopped coming around, but all of the material things were just icing on the cake. He made me feel loved, and taught me things that I still use. He wasn’t the perfect father, but he’s mine. Some times that has to be enough.
Moral of the story: Everything happens the way it's supposed to. Don't worry so much about the 'what ifs', but rather enjoy the lessons they teach.
