On Daddies, Daughters, and Shotguns

What happened to my precious little girl? You know, the one that looked like this?

I'll tell you what happened. She blossomed into a stunning beauty with thick, lush hair, a dazzling smile, an dynamic, vivacious personality, and a voluptuous figure that turns the heads of men - and women - everywhere she goes.


My daughter and my son are similar in many ways, but polar opposites in others. Where my son is quiet, imaginative, and observant, my daughter is gregarious, outgoing, and has charisma to burn. Both have buckets and buckets of talent and both are extraordinarily creative, but each expresses themselves in different ways.


From her earliest years, Christa was a performer. Whenever I would crank up the tunes, she would stop whatever she might be doing, plant herself right in my direct line of sight, and break into dance.


Her favorite band in the early years was INXS - "Daddy, play Supersizer Blonde!! Play it, daddy! PLEEEEEEASE??"

How could I resist another performance of Supersizer Blonde?


She would be very serious about her dancing. First she would get in her "ready" stance - arms at 45 degrees in front of her, her cherry lips set just so, then nod when she was ready for me to hit play. She'd rotate her hips, shake those golden curls from side to side, then sort of jog in place before leaping straight up in the air, hair flying, all with her little tongue planted firmly in the corner of her mouth. It was all I could do not to burst out giggling every time she went at it.

I remember when she would fall asleep on the couch, thumb in her mouth, breathing softly. I would gently dust her with butterfly kisses and stroke her Shirley Temple locks. My heart would ache as I wondered how I was so blessed. Do you know that feeling? I could watch her sleep for hours and never let her go.


As she grew, she would hang with me wherever I went. Back in those days I used to cook all the time, and she was always in the kitchen, by my side. We made banana pudding (from scratch, of course - no packaged pudding in OUR recipe!), fajitas, zucchini parmesan, southern fried chicken (with buttermilk!), blackeyed peas, salads, you name it. She would bake me cakes for my birthday. One year she baked a cake, cut it up, and frosted it like a parrot. It was one of my all-time favorites, and an early indication of her innate artistic talent.


Living just a mile and a half from Galveston Bay on the south side of Clear Lake, we lived the outdoor lifestyle - always in the water, at the pool, or in the yard watching the birds, playing in the garden, or building stuff. I wore a bandanna to keep my scalp from blistering and she would do the same, just so that we would "match". She was on the swim team, and both she and her brother were as brown as their Grandma Granny's homemade biscuits.

For as long as I can remember, whenever I was in my recliner in the living room, she would climb up in the chair with me and snuggle down into her spot, her ever-present thumb in her mouth and her head on my chest. I would occasionally try to sneak her hand away from her face and get a lick for myself. "Boy that thumb sure looks yummy - can I have a bite?"

"NO, daddy!", she'd holler, and then plant her entire hand in her armpit where I couldn't get to it.

As she was finishing up intermediate school and about to enter high school, it slowly dawned on me that I was going to have a problem. No, she didn't get into drugs or misbehave or hang with the wrong crowd. She always was - and still is - a great kid, respectful (she still says "yes, sir"), polite, and aware of the difference between right and wrong.

No, the "problem" was something else. You see, my little baby, Daddy's Girl in every sense of the phrase, was maturing waaaaaay too fast for my taste. Suddenly she has these, um, protrusions that seemed somewhat larger than the other girls her age.

"Oh, shit", I thought to myself, "where did those come from?"

Visions of shotguns danced in my head as I tortured myself with all sorts of horrible scenarios. I planned my speech and worked on my "look" in the mirror. It was more of a glare, actually, the sort of stare-down visage that one might expect from a grizzled FBI agent who was trying to get a multi-state serial killer-rapist-fugitive to confess.

I tried to jokingly (okay, sort of jokingly) forbid her from going on dates, and teased her that I was going to plant myself on the front porch with a shotgun, then spend a good fifteen minutes with the boy in question as I ascertained his – ahem - *intentions* with my baby girl.

I didn’t really grill the boys that hard (at least I don’t think I did), but she was worried that I would embarrass her in front of her date. However, I seem to recall that she herself told her date for the Senior Prom about the grilling her was about to endure, and that she stood to one side and watched the proceedings with a bemused Mona Lisa smile.

Why, you may ask, was I so worried about what might happen to my drop-dead gorgeous sixteen-year-old with the hourglass figure of a Greek goddess? After all, don’t ALL daddies worry like that?

Uh, no. No, they don’t.

You see, when I was a horny little teenager of sixteen, testosterone and raging hormones surging through scrawny, gangly little 120 pound frame, all I could think about was getting my hands on a pair of big, ripe, juicy melons. (Preferably the ones attached to Kay Klein, but that’s a story for another day.)

The point is that I knew how my buddies and I acted when we were that age (Beavis and Butthead would not be too far off), and I was mortified to imagine some little twerp putting his hands on MY little princess.

As it turned out, I didn’t have anything to worry about. Christa was far too savvy to put up with any shenanigans and tomfoolery, and even so, she ran with a crowd of good kids. Talented and artistic to a fare-the-well, she hung out with the art kids and the drama kids. I started her in acting lessons when she was about nine, and she was onstage all through her senior year of high school. She has a stage presence that naturally draws your eyes, regardless of where she might be in the scene.

The other kids flocked to her like bees to honey, and there were times during her performances when I would watch her delivering lines and playing off the other actors, and my chest felt so full that I thought it might burst. Do you know that feeling? That glorious feeling of love and pride and nostalgia and longing mixed with the knowledge that one day they will be gone. Gone to their own lives and friends and interests and careers.

Most of all, though, it was love. God, how I love that child.



Today my little girl is all grown up. She is still on stage, however, because she is “connected” – after all, Daddy is in The Business. She works for me as a trophy presenter, a production assistant, and as onstage talent for many of my live events. She has been onstage with Neil Armstrong, Tom DeLay, Eileen Collins, the NASA Administrator, the mayor of Houston, and any number of astronauts, senators, congressmen, and bigwigs. She has rubbed shoulders with Barbara Bush, NFL players, musicians, and professional actors.

She has now gone national, modeling for a t-shirt company:

Holla Back

I sometimes watch as tuxedo-clad businessmen, CEOs, astronauts, professional athletes, and the wealthy and powerful gape and marvel at her poise and beauty. I've seen people two and three and four times her age swivel their heads as she walks by, but today my worries have been replaced by the knowledge and comfort that we, as parents, did our job, and that she is more than capable of making her way in the world.

Daddy’s Little Girl is now a confident, charismatic, talented young woman who is about to start her sophomore year at a major university. She chose not to pursue an acting career, but is continuing to develop her natural talent as a sculptor and artist. She loves kids, her friends, her brother, her mom, her stepmom, and – most importantly – her daddy.

And that, my friends, is all a father can ask.