My college-age child is a daughter. When young, she was a complete Daddy’s daughter. I read to her, bathed her, and generally looked after her upon coming home from work. In fact, mom found her day done when I came home. We watched the Food Network, Jeopardy, and several children's shows in the evening before reading and bedtime.
Her grandmother bought her all the princess books from Disney and we would read those before bedtime. Of course, my throat hurt after making all the different voices but it was well worth it. However, if in conversation I missed the name or story about one of the princesses, my daughter would quickly correct me. Don’t mess with her princesses.
At age five, she and I stripped the front porch rail of paint and painted to look new again. My daughter squished spiders and watch shows about snakes. Helped her learn how to ride a bike and fly a kite. I used an old fishing pole with couple hundred feet of a four-pound test line to fly it high into the sky.
I made the mistake of blinking one day and now she travels to college every day. She doesn’t squish bugs and runs away from spiders. Just the mere mention of a snake will make her jump. I haven’t read anything to her since she was six and have not watched anything on television in ten years. She has many great hobbies like knitting and other artsy work which make me proud. Under everything she is or the amazing things to come, I know deep down, she is still my Daddy’s Daughter.
Did I mention, my dog is a Karen? The other evening just after supper, mom came down for her after-dinner tea. Her fur baby followed her as usual. The first of the month she gives her baby a treat that we call a toothbrush. It’s designed to clean her teeth as she chews. Instead of waiting until her water became hot, my wife pipes up, “Who wants a toothbrush?”
Ginger goes crazy at the sound of the words and the tone in the voice. “What do you have to do?”
Ginger races upstairs and waits for her treat. However, she is a Karen and after two minutes of Karen time or “Forever,” she races back down the stairs with a glare wanting her treat. She runs so fast, she slips into the wall upon reaching the kitchen tile.
“You have to wait upstairs” mom sweetly calms her in a spoiling voice.
So upstairs she runs again. A minute later back down this time with a Karen cry of, “Urry ruu” or “hurry up” for those of you who don’t speak dog. Finely the tea kettle whistle and mom takes her the treat.
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