Blessed indeed is the man who hears many
gentle voices call him father!
Lydia M. Child
When I was a little girl, my father had a time-honored tradition of tucking me into bed. Following my bedtime story, he would give me a nose kiss, tickle my stomach and whisper the most wonderful words into my ear. “Michelle, of all the little girls in the whole wide world . . .” he would pause.
“ Yes, Daddy?”
“ How did your mommy and I get so lucky to get the best one?”
Before he had time to finish, I would say, “You got me!” And then he would continue, “The best little girl in the whole wide world, and we got you.”
“ You got me!” I would scream and clap.
“ Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky.” He would end with a bear hug and another kiss to my forehead.
Years passed and my father never missed a night, even when I thought he should have. After my basketball team was defeated, he came into my room.
“ Michelle, of all the basketball players in the whole wide world,” he paused.
“ Yes, Daddy?” I stared at the floor.
“ How did your mom and I get so lucky to get the best one?”
“ You didn’t.”
“ Of course we did, Michelle. We have you.”
“ But, Dad . . .”
“ Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky,” he cheered, as he gave me a high five followed by a bear hug and a kiss to my forehead. I thought becoming a teenager would end the ritual, but it didn’t.
“ Michelle, of all the teenagers in the whole wide world . . .” he would pause.
“ Dad, I’m too old for this,” I would sigh.