Mirror Magazine

My father loves me more than life itself. I’ve always known that. Knowing that is a huge part of who I am right now. Today, my dad and I stand proud – having survived that battlefield called ‘my childhood’. Let me assure you innocents out there, that this was no mean achievement. We made it through by the skin of our teeth – with only devoted, dogged determination and love to light the way. Of course, to put things in context for you, I ought to tell you that my father was a single parent for most of my formative years, and thereby, according to every stereotype in psychology, responsible for my terribly flawed character. (So if you have any complaints, you’d better take it up with him.)

While I have frequently been commiserated with for having been deprived of my mother’s love when I was very young, when I think about it, I’m not really all that devastated. After all, my mum and I got to live it up a few years later, and in the meantime I had the party of a lifetime! So why do I love my dad? Let me count the ways.

My father could have put Machiavelli to shame. Suffice to say I must illustrate this with an example. I’m all of seven years old. Now the hunk next door, (his name was Marcel) invites me over for his birthday party. The exact details are hazy, but it’s not more than half an hour later that I run into the house and straight into my father’s arms, nearly blind with tears. Marcel had played a nasty little trick on me, humiliated me in front of everyone, and had as a by product, left my little heart feeling as if he had run his toy monster truck over it.

Now here’s a little universal truth – nobody messes with daddy’s little girl. My father and I rifle through the fridge and discover a huge layered cake. We cut it into big slices. Then we select one slice, separate it, scoop out the centre and stuff it with massive quantities of pepper. That slice is then carefully camouflaged amongst the ordinary pieces, and I am extensively coached on how to offer the cake to the unsuspecting party goers. When I do, they all eat it, first hesitantly, then with growing confidence. To them it looks like I’m eating humble pie (or cake in this case.) Marcel eats last, and boy does he go up in flames.

While all the others roll on the floor laughing, and Marcel desperately hunts for water, I stand undisputed victor of the battlefield… and childhood is that, isn’t it? One big challenging battle after another – be it learning your alphabet, defeating the neighbourhood bullies, or getting a part in the school play. One thing’s for sure, you always, always need someone in your corner. For me, my dad was it.

My dad was always indulgent, and I loved him for it. He would not tolerate tantrums, but if I was willing to ‘talk’ it out, the world was my oyster. He was always thinking up ways to keep me entertained. He couldn’t wait till I learned to read, but in the meantime there was an endless parade of fascinating things. I’ll always remember my dad and I running in panic down the beach, while a boomerang (which we had finally thrown ‘right’) came rushing after us. Not only had we never thought as far as catching the darn thing, it never occurred to either of us to sidestep either. At other times we flew massive kites, spent entire evenings concocting my dream ice cream sundae and painting my room lilac and yellow, again as per my express desires. I can’t resist saying this, so forgive me – those were the days, those really were the days.

However, life was far from being a bed of roses. My father worked long hours and I ran wild most of the time. I refused to buckle down to my studies (and am still wobbly with numbers as a result). Also, since any attempt he made to dry and comb my hair was met with much hysteria, he was forced to cut my hair short – leaving me resembling a little street urchin. Whenever I fell ill, nothing would do but for my father to come himself to my deathbed, at which point I would be fine – my fever (very real until that moment) would magically dissipate, and I’d be up and about. It was also left to my father to explain the intricacies of sex to me, something he did with such verve and imagination that even today I find myself laughing at the very idea of tadpole lookalike ‘knock knocking!’ at the door of a big white ball.

My dad – my first love, my refuge, my inspiration, always the biggest, bestest dad there is in the whole world… He still worries about me, still lets me hide in his arms when I’m sad or scared, still insists I’ll always be his little girl (“even when you’re fifty and fat and have grown up kids!”). There’s an odd sort of comfort in that. It’s been awhile since I decided that nothing I can say will ever change his mind. Truth be told, I don’t really want to.