I called up my Dad in Samoa the other day. I said, “Hi!”
He said, “Who’s this?”
I said, “It’s your favorite, most amazing, most splendidly talented daughter.”
He said, “Oh, Rebecca!”
He may as well have taken a butter knife and stabbed me in the heart with it. Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot.
(And you just know, that right now, my little sister is reading this blogpost and dancing a little dance and hi-fiveing her own awesomeness.) Now I have blogged about this before – the conundrum of favorites in a family. So you’ll already know that I’m from a family of six children and of those six, all four girls are ‘Dad’s favorite.’ And until now, I was positive that I’m the favoritest of them all. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the favoritest of us all?
To his credit, my Dad did try to retract the butter knife. From my heart.
I said, “I can’t believe you said that. All these years, you told me I was your favorite daughter, your absolute bestest child. All my confidence in you as my Dad who loves me the mostest, has been dashed to pieces.”
He said, “No,no I meant to say Lani. Of course I did. You’re my favorite, most gifted daughter called Lani but your voice sounded like Rebecca’s on the phone and I didn’t want to upset her.”
Aaah, that’s what it is. My Dad is seventy-two years old and his hearing is a little shaky.
I know I’m still the favoritest. I don’t need to send out the Huntsman. I’ll just keep him right here with me, yay….