
When she was born, she was a beauty. Dark hair, dark eyes, looked like a miniature Sophia Loren.
She sucked her middle two fingers for her first four years. She was sweet as sugar and stubborn as a mule. One May afternoon, at about age 6, she refused to dance in her end of year ballet recital because she accidently stood in the wrong spot when the performance began. Her teacher nicely corrected her, easing her into a different spot on the floor. She fell apart, ran out of the room and refused to reenter.
Now I am not a pushover. After great understanding and sensitivity, I ordered her, with my strongest tone and pointed finger, to get her tiny behind back on stage.
She looked at me with defiance. “NO!!”
“I am your father, get back in there!” I demanded.
“NO!! NO!!”
Her mother left that conflict to me. I guess she figured if my tough self couldn’t persuade her to return, it was a worthless battle to fight.
We got pizza instead.
And now, after probably 50 dance and piano recitals, nearly straight A’s in high school and college, and extracurriculars galore, child 2, my Stephanie, is graduating from Elon University.
It seems just like yesterday that I dropped her off as a freshman and Julie had to nearly use a crowbar to pry us apart on the sidewalk of Williamson Street near her first dorm. I cried to Mebane and then bucked up for the duration of her college years.
I’m so proud of her.
She is smart as a whip, cares about social justice, has interned at a program for folks who are struggling with physical or sexual abuse, has wonderful friends and, like her mother, can organize a clowder of cats.
I think she’s going to spend next year in New Orleans doing service work through the Presbyterian Church. What a cool kid she is!