If you love something, set it free.

One of the things my family likes to do when we get together is to tell stories of my childhood. The type of story always depends on who's present. If Monkey's around or anyone else that wasn't diapered by these crazies, they're bombarded with funny stories about how I told my Grandma to "cool (her) jets" when I was 3 and she was angry at my dad or how I added a whole 6 months to my age when I met some cool girls down at the swimming pond behind my grandparent's house. Or how I told my grandpa "right after Grandpa Season" when he asked me when (hunting) cat season opened. As these stories are recalled you'll find me off to the side with a playful roll of the eyes and a mischievous smile.

When it's just my Dad and I, however, the stories are always of the things I did when I was little that endeared me to him. Like the way I use to watch him shave every day because I was so concerned for his safety or how I colored pictures of flowers and rainbows all over his new drum heads that he had to play on for two months before we could afford to replace them and by the time we could he wanted to keep them anyway. Of how the first time he came home from an out of town gig with his drums in their brand new leather cases he found me dragging them along the sidewalk into the house, scuffing them to all hell and gone, because I was too little to carry them but I wanted my Daddy home. All the while you'll see me cuddled up to my Daddy, with my eyes closed, a soft smile on my face, remembering those times - and selfishly not sharing the memories of him that endeared him to me.

I don't know why I don't share them. Why I don't tell my dad how I use to look at him in awe as he lovingly polished his set or how I use to love riding on my dad's calves as he walked around the house or laid on his stomach on the floor bringing his feet to 90⁰ not just because it was fun but because it was a guaranteed hug I could give to my dad that lasted well after a real hug would have. I've never told him that I use to lay underneath the coffee table until he came home from work where he would kiss me because I was playing I was Snow White or Sleeping Beauty and he was my Knight in Shining Armor. I don't know why I don't share them. I know it's not because I don't want him to know. I adore him with all of my heart and I hope he knows there's nothing I wouldn't do for him. I'm a "Daddy's girl" through and through - but not because he spoiled me, we were just too broke. I'm a "daddy's girl" in that my eyes light up when my dad's around, my heart fills with happiness and my soul with laughter. I keep these memories of him as close to my heart as I do my child's first word, but I'm fiercely more protective of them. I keep them in the fear that sharing them will somehow set them free and by doing that they won't be mine anymore. That somehow, with time, they will begin to fade, be mis-remembered, or even forgotten. However, knowing how loved it makes me feel when he recalls memories of me I now realize how much of an injustice it is that he doesn't get to have the same in return.

We're going up to visit my family on the weekend of the 20th. I've shared some of these stories here now with you but I will share them all then with him.