So, it’s sort of common knowledge that I’m a daddy’s girl. It’s a thing. He’s my hero and it doesn’t matter how our relationship goes, he always will be. Don’t get me wrong, we used to fight like animals and he can still hurt my feelings faster than anyone else, but that’s life, isn’t it?
My mom and I spend hours on the phone jabbering, we’re both endlessly crafty and there’s always something to talk about. She’s my biggest cheerleader and I can always count on her to talk me down from whatever hysterical ledge I’m walking. (If I had a nickel for every time I heard, “stop crying, you’ll just make yourself sick” I’d be rich.)
I talk to both my parents weekly, at least. It’s a thing. The older I get, the more I need those phone calls, because usually now they’re just normal stuff — how’s the construction business, how’re the dogs, I love you, are you eating okay, etc. It’s important.
My wife tells me I’m a perfect mixture of both of them. I have my daddy’s practicality and ability to simply not give a shit, my mother’s creativity and need to have something to do all the time. Daddy’s ambition, Moma’s wits. Both parents gave me the work ethic, the reading bug, and the love of chatter. I get the OCD from Daddy’s side, the weird need for schedule from Mother. Moma is to blame for my obsession with all things musical and she’s where I get all my weird faces (and the chin — the chin is hers). Daddy is a huge bird watcher and a consummate story teller and he’s to blame for the nose. No one knows where my temper comes from (I get icy cold and cutting, both my parents are hot tempered).
That’s me. A mixture of both of them.
Much love, y’all.