Dedicated to the world’s best dads
Looking back, I don’t think I would call myself a daddy’s girl.
I adore my dad. When I was really young, he worked shifts and sometimes had 2 jobs so there were days and days where we didn’t really see him. I remember coming downstairs during the early hours of the morning and finding him passed out on the sofa in the front room, the television either playing static, that weird image of the girl and puppet in front of a blackboard or the ‘the cat came back the very next day’ cartoon. He’d be so tired from work that he didn’t even feel me come in. The light would be off, the tv throwing a cold blue light over everything, and he’d be strewn across the sofa, usually with one hand propping his head up and his arms curled across his chest. I’d climb up onto his legs and lie down on top of him, lying flat across his back, my head resting against the back of his; or, if he was lying on his side, I’d try to push myself back onto the sofa so that I could lie in front of him. I don’t know if he woke up, I don’t remember him ever waking up. Like a toddler sleeping through a fire alarm, I’m not sure it was possible to wake him up back then before his alarm went off. My mum would come down and try to lift me up, put me back into bed so that I could sleep properly before primary school and so that I didn’t wake my dad up during the precious few hours he had to sleep before getting back to work.
When I discovered a love and talent for music, he was my biggest fan. He definitely inched towards the kind of ‘stage dad’ personality type but this was before the Simon Cowell reality tv talent shows - there was no way I, as a 10 year old, could have gone on Stars In Their Eyes or that Michael Barrymore show (who remembers 21st Century Girls?!) - so it manifested in encouraging me at school and entering local contests at local festivals. I definitely inherited my love of music from my dad. Even at times when we couldn’t understand each other through the fog of teenage hormones, anger at my parent’s separation and just being born 30 years apart in totally different countries, music was often the one thing that would fully bring us back together.
I am not a daddy’s girl but so much of me is made of him. We have the same temper (it takes a hell of a lot to make us angry but, once you do, you won’t see it coming till it’s too late), temperament, similar insecurities, similar physical build (I’m a little lumpier than he is!) and we’re pretty great to talk to if you’re having problems. We’re entirely rational and logical until our hearts are involved and then we’re often too emotional and can’t really get out of our own way.
My dad has worked so hard to understand me, even when everything about me made no sense and probably created so much anxiety for him. So many of my choices have gone against everything that made sense to him as an immigrant born in Jamaica in 1953 who came to a country that stomped on him at every possible opportunity.
It has taken me a long time to really understand (or try to understand) how alien and strange and scary so much of raising a teenage girl in a country that has never been kind must have been for him. Some of the disagreements we’ve had have been huge but throughout he has never ever made me question his devotion to me and my sister. His love for us pours out of him, he glows and grows with it. And never more has it been apparent than his interactions with Ramona.
My ma always made it very clear that she wanted a grandchild. She would have been happy if I’d had one with my ex, whom she hated, because she would have adored that child no matter what. My dad was much quieter. Exactly as I would have been, he didn’t want to reveal his hopes and make himself vulnerable like that or to put pressure on me to provide a grandchild. I actually think he was worried that I’d be too fat and old for a child (thank you for the stellar messaging, media/society!) so when Ramona arrived and was strong and healthy, he started to soften. Then when we let him into our Covid bubble and he was with her every week, he completely transformed. He dances with her, sings with her, carries her around the house instead of making her walk, does whatever he has to to make her happy. He is scared - the downside of loving someone is recognising the possibility of losing them - but so full of joy.
Through the anxiety and the stubbornness and the occasional lack of tact, my dad is a true superstar and I just adore him. I have a perfect dad - he is affectionate, funny, generous, honest, I see his faults but so does he. He’ll apologise, he’ll learn and is open to letting me try to change his mind and I honestly don’t know what more I could have asked for in terms of setting an example.
My relationship with my dad is essential to me, both in terms of now and in the past - the construction of who I am as a person. When I was younger, thinking about the future family I might have, I wanted more than anything for this relationship to mirror the one my future partner would have with our own daughter (I always knew I would have a girl/first). It didn’t matter if we ended up divorced/separated/whatever - I just wanted someone who would never make my child feel unimportant.
So watching Jack and Ramona grow together is almost overwhelming. I literally just had to stop writing and sit smiling at the screen for a couple of minutes; I was flooded with images and scenes of the two of them together. He can make her concentrate on things that she has very little patience for when she does them with me; he finds the fun in everything; when she’s being an arsehole he is stern but makes it so clear that he loves her. When he isn’t sure about something (as is the way with a toddler every other week!), he researches and talks to me and is so open to trying things that maybe are out of his comfort zone. All because it’s best for her and so, ultimately, best for us. He is affectionate and silly and strong and so vibrant with her - encouraging her to be brave where maybe I might have been a bit too cautious, fully lifting me so that I’ve never once felt alone in parenthood.
Jack is so emotionally open and so affectionate. I don’t remember ever seeing my parents kiss, ever. There are photos from when they were younger but, even then, they look so self conscious. Jack and I kiss in front of Ramona all of the time. We hug and giggle and hold hands in front of her, even when she demands that we stop. We have so many photos of the two of us kissing, even after Ramona was born, because it has never stopped being important to be us. And even that will have an impact on Ramona - I print photos so that she’ll have photo albums to go through and she’ll see that and hopefully remember how playful and affectionate we were with each other, something that I hope she’ll be able to create in her own relationships.
Jack and Ramona play musical instruments together, draw monsters and mummy together, build towers and tower-mummies together, smash bubbles in the bath together, go to the playground after nursery together. When I was struggling emotionally in the months after her birth, Jack would take Ramona out on walks when I was too scared to leave the house.
He has been so present and so available and so open to and for her, I can’t put into words (despite the vast number I’ve already used!) how much it fills me to witness it. I see photos and videos of them together and I can’t breathe for a second and I just want to project them onto the sides of all of the buildings, have the audio of them laughing with each other burst out of every speaker, everywhere.
No matter what happens in the future, I’m watching the two of them create this exceptional foundation upon which Ramona will be able to build vibrant, healthy and emotionally enriching relationships. Just like my funny, flawed and honest dad did for me.
