I have attempted to write and post this blog three times over the last week. I finally figured out that it was my angel tapping me on the shoulder suggesting a find a different story to write.
I could tell you a sweet story about me being Daddy's little girl but such is not the case. My Dad has four little girls and that is only the first team. There are four 2nd team just grown up little girls and the two very special 3rd team very little girls.
I am 1st string Daddy's little girl #3. I am the complex, creative, dreamer that he struggles to understand. I am also the daughter that has worked by his side the longest. God has such a sense of humor. We have much to teach and learn from each other he and I. Our lessons are far from over.
My job requires me to count, add, subtract and use percentages, along with keeping track of a lot of different things. None of these things are my forte. Trust me. My father on the other hand is a numbers and financial wiz. Underneath the coat of corn starch and cocoa powder beats the heart of a successful banker and college educated economics virtuoso. There are many times in a day that I report a number to him and he just looks at me. Most of the time he kindly suggests that I check that number one more time. I am sure that he looks at me and wonders if perhaps I might be the postman's daughter. Just take one look at my nose Pops. I'm pretty sure this sucker belongs to your side of the family. My three sisters and my brother clearly have inherited some pretty strong genes from my Dad. All of them can count past ten with much more ease than me. Their intellects are in tact backed up by a tough work ethic.
So Dad and I have developed a sort of language. Sometimes it is expressive. This might involve tears, angry outbursts or a thunder face. Other times it's a type of dance we have uniquely choreographed. It might involve a broomstick with a white flag attached entering his kitchen before I do in hopes of deflating a battle. Sometimes the dance requires me to drop a bomb request(usually for penuche fudge when he is past exhaustion), at which point my flight response kicks in before his fight response does. Then there are those quiet moments of conversation that start out with "You know, you might want to think about...".
At 54 I will always be my father's daughter. I will always be trying to figure out what is going on in his head. I continue to laugh every time I have to tell a customer I have to go ask my Dad for an answer. I am grateful for these lessons that he teaches me with his left brain. I am not sure that my father appreciates my right brain spills of the family secrets in my blogs for all to read. But then I appeal to the left side of his brain that I am shamelessly exploiting our family as a means to further our business. He gets that but does remind me that there are limits.
So Happy Father's Day Dad. I am sorry I yelled "You pinched me!" at the top of my lungs in church when I was little. And about that shirt I bled all over during the swing set incident. Sorry :( I look forward to continuing our language classes together. I am sure as well that we will continue to choreograph this fabulous father daughter chocolate dance until it is perfectly sweet.