Life with a Girl Dad
It was exciting moving into our third house as a family. Every day we would play on the street and in the backyard pretending to live in a fairy forest. Every morning the smell of grits would waft down the hallway into my room. My dad loved them and would make them all the time, so I followed suit, perking up and jumping out of bed, picturing the golden maple syrup pouring over the mushy grains.
I love grits. But don’t get me wrong, it was a process.
My dad is a “girl dad,” but he raised me to be tough. I learned that sometimes you grow to adapt to the things that aren’t ideal. The first time I spooned a pile of grits into my mouth, I gagged from the combination of texture and blandness. My distaste melted away as I glanced at my dad’s smile, watching me become a person who makes their own decisions.
Hmm. Maybe grits don’t taste so bad.
My caffeine addiction began in high school — the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I would wake to the sound of coffee beans roasting. The thin walls of the house failed to mask the jolting sound at 6 a.m.
My first sip of coffee was met with a scowl of distaste. “This tastes like socks!” I exclaimed. A bold claim considering I have yet to consume socks. My dad convinced me that it was the origin of beans that have a sweet taste. I desperately tried to pick up the notes of cherry or chocolate, convinced I was also a coffee connoisseur.
Come sophomore year of high school, the sound of beans grinding became music to my ears. Each sip gave me joy because we were alike for even more reasons — two peas in a pod. I used to hate the bitter taste of coffee but learned to see the world from a sweeter side, like my Dad. We still had our chosen differences, separating our commonalities. He preferred a darker roast, savoring the bitter aftertaste. I stuck to my vanilla lattes until recently, falling into the cold brew hype.
My dad used to play beach volleyball, and after hearing all the stories, I joined a recreation volleyball team. Like most kids, I tried all of the sports and activities. For my own sanity, I had to narrow down my extracurricular activities as I got older. A tough decision between a clarinet, running shoes or a volleyball.
Most days, my dad would get home from work exhausted from the long day. I would be practicing in the backyard, throwing my volleyball onto the roof trying to predict where it would land to work on my reaction time (debatably not a good method). The back French doors would open and he would come out to play volleyball with me. His one rule was to not go easy on me, which improved my skill level.
I decided volleyball was my passion.
Throughout my 21 years, I’ve adapted my own lens on life. I learned to love and embrace a challenge. Grits, coffee and volleyball normally wouldn’t make sense together but it’s what my dad taught me to love through hard lessons. And grits aren’t all that bad!