i am my father's daughter

(whoa, haven't blogged in while! it's been a little wild with GRADUATING, hooray!!...but get ready for a lot more writing because i've got some tiiiiiiime...)

I’ve been thinking about my Dad lately. Maybe it’s Father’s day coming up or maybe it’s just that I have a lot of time on my hands now.

I was having breakfast with my dad and step-mom not too long ago on the island. Visits with my dad are few and far between, they always have been. But still we both try and make time for that relationship and try and restore what’s been missing all along. I was thinking back to that breakfast and how we are more alike than I know.

The server walked over and made some pleasant conversation about the weather and tides. She turned to take our order, my step-mom abruptly ordered a long and complicated meal with substitutions and specific requests, hardly making eye contact and with a bit of a huff. The young server, clearly overwhelmed and visually nervous about what order may follow next looked my way. She was a sweet girl and throughout my step-mom’s order, I was trying to decide what to compliment her on, she had a great necklace, boots and haircut. I told her I couldn’t hold in a compliment that I loved her antique necklace, cowboy boots and cute haircut. She smiled big and accepted gracefully. I ordered French toast and coffee. She let out a breath of relief and looked to my dad, “Canyon Combo with coffee, please.” She smiled big and turned away. My dad looked at me and says loud enough for the server to hear on her walk to the kitchen, “She was a very sweet girl. I think we lucked out and got the nicest server that works here.”

…once our food arrived, I noticed my dad pouring generous amounts of syrup over his pancakes, bacon and eggs and I smiled. My step-mom was quick to comment on how absurd this was and who would put syrup over everything on their plate? I smiled, recalling to myself my secret love of syrup on both eggs and bacon.

At times I feel like I know strangers on the street better than my dad, which breaks my heart a little, but there are other times, like at breakfast when the littlest things will remind me that I am his daughter; our mutual love of syrup, uncomplicated orders, and kindness to those that serve us. They are small things, I know, but at the time and even now, it’s those little things that my dad and I have in common that mean the world to me.