Why do Daddy’s have to be the bad guy…fondue Sunday nights

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Endless pleading continued from my whiny voice. “Oh Mummy please, Daddy doesn’t need to know!” I always wondered how on earth Mum blocked me out? It was if I wasn’t in the same room, yet she knew every word I was repeating. I always thought It must have been her growing up in WWII. Blocking out all the bomber planes flying overhead, ignore and duck. She knew how to ignore and duck from my non-stop whining too.

Daddy came home and just as he was predictable and accountable to God in winning souls over to Heaven, he was also predictable in “daddy discipline”. The scenes were the same, the connection of his eyes looking into mine, always the same.

Fashionista!

Fashionista!

“Miss D, you are my first born”. I knew this already. “This hurts me more than you will ever know”, Daddy said sitting on the floor next to me in the playroom. I wanted to be a smart ass and say, “Then don’t hurt yourself” but I didn’t. Daddy would always start off by saying “Sweetheart, my hands are for loving my family, to pray with you, but never to hurt you”. I would think “I know Daddy, can we finish this”? Yet he went on and on, and then the worst came, the guilty feeling that was instilled in me for a whole day. “Did you ask Jesus for forgiveness?” that was always next from his stern, yet loving voice. I just didn’t know why I was asking for forgiveness? I didn’t get killed, Jenny’s ball didn’t get lost? Was I asking forgiveness because I could have given the driver of the car a heart attack? My answer to Daddy’s questions were always the same, “Yes Daddy, I knelt on my knees and asked for forgiveness”. I lied, because the only thing I ever thought about when I seemed to be in trouble, which was pretty much all the time, was getting past Daddy’s disappointment of me. It seemed to happen all at once too, the guilt that Daddy knew he could stir up inside of me, it hit me like a punch from a mean boy. Two tears would always wind up running from the side corners of my eyes, without fail. Daddy knew, he always knew, that was next. Yet just when you thought it was over, the belt would come off, he folded it one time and SWAT! The “daddy discipline” was over. Yet the words, “you knew better than this”, and the “I don’t like when you disappoint Mummy and Daddy” stayed in my head, and played over the rest of the day. I always wondered what made Mummy always have to tattle on me? I know she wasn’t happy about Daddy being the “bad guy”, yet this was the 60’s and “mummy’s” couldn’t be the “bad guy”, they could only break wooden spoons on our butts, while we kept running from room to room, which I always felt was worse than the belt.

Chapter 2 “Adult time, fondue, and bedtime 

Yes I was well-loved by a lot of adults. They laughed at my young sense of humor, always asking me “So Miss D what would you like to be when you grow up” I would innocently look at them and say, “an adult”. I was serious, and they were in stitches. Every Sunday night after church, the adults came over for fondue. Oh the days and nights of fondue, dipping big chunks of bread in a creamy, cheesy, sauce with the strangest looking “forks”. I wouldn’t budge and pretended I was invisible. I would even change my clothes to look like my mums best friend, Miss Joan. I would normally be wearing my night gown, if the mini dress was tonight’s attire, I would just hike it up with rubber bands. I never had to worry about the maxi dress since my nightie dragged on the floor anyway, I was in my glory imitating all these dressed up, twenty something, church ladies.

Miss Joan, on the other hand was no ordinary church lady. She was the classy, divorced, fashionista every time you would see her. It was more than maxi or mini skirts, she had the whole package. The wig “fall” pieces added to any woman’s hair in order to create height, the fake eyelashes and heavy eyeliner. The spike high heels and clunky jewelry, with a matched handbag for all occasions. Every item on her body created the pages of a fashion magazine that I wanted to be in, I just had to grow up first. I wanted to be Miss Joan, but first I had to get past my Mum and stay up late.

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