Today I Want My Dad

I woke up sick. I hate being sick.

When I'm sick I want Dad. Don't get me wrong, I love Mom. But Mom is not who you call for in the middle of the night when you are sick at the French home. No, you call for Dad. Dad would hear the slightest whimper and come to see which daughter was not sleeping soundly. As little girls the odds were usually on my side, I had chronic ear-infections. More often than not he would come with a warm washcloth for me to put on my ear. He would come in, quietly as to not wake Brianna. No need to move, as a natural side-sleeper Dad would quickly remove my hand from the ear it was holding and replace it would the washcloth. He was further prepared with the cordless phone. I would hear him call Mr. Wilson, no not the elderly man next door but the pharmacist whom we knew well. Dad would then begin to hum in his tenor voice Primary Songs until I would fall back asleep. The next thing I knew Dad would be waking me up with some Pink Bubble Gum tasting penicillin. He would be there when I woke up the next morning. The washcloth on my ear would still be warm, its not until I was older that I realized how many times he would have had to get up every half an hour or so to keep it that way.

My ear's not hurting and I'm not four but when I woke up in the middle of the night coughing and with a slight fever ... There was that four-year-old inside of me hoping to hear those footsteps. I went and got my own medicine, put the ice on my back, and am now trying to get some sleep. I still want my Dad though.