“You’ve already written a blog about the lettered sweat shirts your daughters give you,” said my oldest daughter. Sheryl edits and finds pictures for my weekly–dare I call the writings–essays.
Yeah but this time Cynthia, daughter two, gave me a birthday tee-shirt that says, “You can’t scare me. I have three daughters .”
Made me remember times daughters three did scare their mom and me.
Sheryl was 13. I had driven us from San Antonio to our gate located a half mile from our home located three miles outside Abilene. Dumb decision. Let Sheryl drive our unpaved road to the house, into the garage and then park.
Instead of touching brakes, Sheryl put her foot on the accelerator. Took a couple of weeks to get the garage wall repaired.
Cynthia was age 15, driving classmates home from lunch. She drove into a Chapel Hill culvert at the edge of a driveway. Cheaper to total than get the front end repaired.
Michaela was 17. She drove fifty miles to a three-day conclave of North Carolina high school students forming a replica of state government. She was scheduled to drive home by lunch, but she was still missing at dinnertime.
Just before we called the highway patrol and asked for an all-state search, Mickey arrived home. Made good friend at the conclave. Only took eight hours to drive her new friend to her Charleston home, and then drive on to Chapel Hill.
This week, when I thanked Cindy for my tee-shirt, she told me she ordered one last year but the company had sold out of ‘Three Daughters’ tee-shirts. I was not surprised.
