Blessed indeed is the man who hears many

gentle voices call him father!

Lydia M. Child

When I was a little girl, my father had a time-honored tradition of tucking me into bed. Following my bedtime story, he would give me a nose kiss, tickle my stomach and whisper the most wonderful words into my ear. “Michelle, of all the little girls in the whole wide world . . .” he would pause.

“ Yes, Daddy?”

“ How did your mommy and I get so lucky to get the best one?”

Before he had time to finish, I would say, “You got me!” And then he would continue, “The best little girl in the whole wide world, and we got you.”

“ You got me!” I would scream and clap.

“ Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky.” He would end with a bear hug and another kiss to my forehead.

Years passed and my father never missed a night, even when I thought he should have. After my basketball team was defeated, he came into my room.

“ Michelle, of all the basketball players in the whole wide world,” he paused.

“ Yes, Daddy?” I stared at the floor.

“ How did your mom and I get so lucky to get the best one?”

“ You didn’t.”

“ Of course we did, Michelle. We have you.”

“ But, Dad . . .”

“ Yes, you, Michelle, and we’re so lucky,” he cheered, as he gave me a high five followed by a bear hug and a kiss to my forehead. I thought becoming a teenager would end the ritual, but it didn’t.

“ Michelle, of all the teenagers in the whole wide world . . .” he would pause.

“ Dad, I’m too old for this,” I would sigh.