Waffles...

When I was growing up there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that I was my Daddy’s Girl. My grandmother still makes fun of me because of a Christmas morning that she had made fried eggs for all of the grandkids, and when she brought me my plate I threw a fit because she hadn’t let my Daddy cut up my eggs the “right” way! It wasn’t that Dad cut them up much differently than they already were… but it just wasn’t done right unless MY DADDY did it!

We have gone through our phases in life of being close and not so close, but some of my best memories revolve around a battle of wills that he won with waffles.

I was a pain in the butt to get out of bed for school in the mornings.

Mom and Dad got into the habit of coming in my room and pulling the covers off of me and taking them out the door with them to get me up in time for school. I (thinking I could outsmart them) informed them that they couldn’t do that anymore because I was going to start sleeping nude!

It worked too, for about a week…

It was then that my Dad developed the plan that got me out of bed and to school on time every day for the rest of the year.

I woke up that morning to a very loud knock on my door and squinted towards the offending sound while burrowing farther beneath my warm blankets. My bedroom door slowly creaked open but there was no sound except a “good morning!” from my dad. It was only a few minuets before I started perking up to the heavenly smell of WAFFLES!

(Oh, NO! Dad isn’t playing fair!)

I remember that first morning wrapping my blanket around myself as I wobbled, still half asleep, into the dining room to see two plates of waffles, already cut up and topped with syrup, just waiting to be wolfed down.

I was suspicious; I was a teenager… it was my job to be.

Dad came back in from the kitchen holding two glasses of chocolate milk with a huge smile of victory across his face. (It did not take me long to decide that my Dad was nuts to be that perky that early in the morning.)

But something wonderful happened that morning and the ones that followed.

We talked.

Not about anything Earth shattering or highly important that I can remember, we just talked.

My friends at school made fun of me for smelling like syrup every morning, but it didn’t bother me. I knew that I was lucky to have a Daddy that put that much thought into what was going on with me when most of my friends either hardly knew their dads or wished they didn’t.

I still can’t eat waffles without laughing a bit about how clever my Dad is and how proud of himself he was when he realized that his plan worked… repeatedly.
We just found out that my Daddy has Cancer.

It has to be capitalized because it is that big a deal.

I’m not OK with this.

I’m not OK with the fact that (because I am pregnant) I will not be allowed to see him for a huge chunk of his treatment. (He will be radioactive and it could hurt the baby.)

I’m not OK with my Daddy being sick.

I know logically that my Daddy is human, just like everyone else.

But my Daughter’s heart screams,

“NO! My Daddy is Superman! He can’t really be sick!!!”

Keep us all in your thoughts and prayers please. I’m not sure how many more hits this family can take.