Daddy's Little Girl

Growing up, my dad would often take me out by myself...we called them “Daddy-daughter dates.” When my mom was pregnant with Garrett, he would take me out to let my mom rest. When Garrett was born, he didn’t want us to have any sibling rivalry—he took me out so that I would get individual attention, so that I would feel special, rather than jealous. Even though I’m in college, we still go out on these occasional “dates.”

Usually, Dad and I like to pack up my homework and his Sunday School materials and head out to a café like Tapioca Express or Lollicup to work. My new favorite homework spot is a little café called Vanille in Rowland Heights. We have afternoon tea there, along with a platter of Chinese-style mini-cakes of various flavors and assortments. They have really good green tea and blended drinks, too. It’s nice to just sit and read, to listen to Chinese pop music blaring overhead, or to just people-watch as shoppers walk in and out of the little plaza.

I think the vast majority of my memories of my dad involve pastries or bakeries. Even this weekend, my dad and I made our weekly excursion to Keewah Bakery before dinner. He always jokes that the bakery is “so loud” because he can hear all of the pastries clling his name. Arm-in-arm, we looked through the cases of buns, rolls, pies, and egg tarts. I love breathing in the wonderful sweet scent of the Chinese bakery

It brought back a lot of old childhood memories. As a little kid, I remember spending a lot of time at my grandmother’s house in Sacramento. Dad and I would get up early to walk hand-in-hand down the street and around the corner. There was a restaurant that had a normal diner counter on one side (i.e. toast, omelettes, bacon, etc.) and a Chinese bakery on the other side. In my dad’s mind, at least, it was the perfect combination. I have a lot of happy remembrances of sitting at the counter, swinging my legs, watching in fascinated delight as the short-order cooks whipped up my French toast, enjoying the gooey Chinese pastry we picked out. I can still smell the steaming cup of coffee my dad would sip rather noisily, and the ice old apple juice I always asked for (my uncle nicknamed me “apple juice” because of it).

I’m beginning to look at the future with some hesitation and apprehension. I haven’t lost that sense of excitement and anticipation towards all of the experiences before me—of what God wants to do with my life and where He wants to take me. But the reality of going to Europe and London for a semester is beginning to set in. Even thinking about the possibility of moving away from home (say, Hong Kong or Taiwan) makes me feel a little sad. What will it be like not to go on Daddy-daughter dates? What will Daddy do when I cease to call him because I need a “study buddy”? What will happen to our weekly visits to the bakery and the DVD/CD/book/magazine store next door? What will it be like to no longer roam 99 Ranch Market together in search of the next new food we want to try?

I guess I’ve always been my Daddy’s girl. There’s part of me that knows that someday I must grow up, must be independent and mature and self-sufficient. Someday I might even meet someone who measures up to Daddy’s standards, and I’ll begin a new family and new life with him. But there’s part of me that hasn’t changed—still the same little girl with the big glasses and straight bangs, who sits on Daddy’s lap, and knows to ask Dad—not Mommy—when she wants something. She’s still same little girl who likes to watch sports highlights or the latest martial arts movie with Daddy…the same little girl who misses her Dad when they aren’t together. That part of me, I think, will probably never grow up.