I remember having a T-shirt that said, “Daddy’s Little Girl”.  I don’t remember the color or how I got it, or whether it was a gift from my dad or something my mom picked out.  However, I do remember how I felt about knowing how much my dad loved me.  It made me feel special.  It was truth in advertising… I was daddy’s little girl. 

In the evenings, after dinner, I used to curl up in the nook of his bent legs, my head resting on his thigh.  Often we’d have the tan afghan my mom knitted thrown over both of us with just my head peeking out.  We’d watch TV, probably things like news which bored me at that age.  But it didn’t matter what we watched, I felt warm and cosy… loved.   

I don’t remember where my mother or brother sat.  I have a fuzzy memory of my brother lying on his stomach on the floor, with a pillow under his head, his hands folded under his chin, but he might have sat on the end of the couch or in one of the orange velour chairs.  My mom might have been doing dishes or other things around the house, or maybe she sat at the other end of the couch or in the orange chairs.  It’s strange that I have such a strong memory of snuggling with my dad, I can feel the slightly scratchy afghan and my head resting on his thigh, the fabric of his pants, but remember nothing else.  It’s as if my memory edited out all the other people and things in the room, and narrowed the experience down to the bare feeling of love. 

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my expectations for men, and I think they can be traced back to that T-shirt or a moment on the couch, curled up with my father.  In my relationships, I expect to be adored.  I expect to be treated as if I’m special.  Maybe I even want a T-shirt to prove it. 

I’m not saying that it is a bad to have high expectations.  We should all expect love and kindness from the people in our lives, but are my expectations a little unrealistic?  Do they put undue pressure on my relationships with men?  How have these expectations shaped my love life? 

Looking at my past relationships, I think I have been won over by men who pursued me strongly, sent me flowers, wrote me poetry, or told me that I’m wonderful.  Secretly, I wanted them to think the sun rises and sets on me.  The problem is not the love, pursuit or adoration, but that no one is “wonderful” all the time.