the whistle

So my dad makes me carry a whistle in my purse every day. Apparently a whistle is going to thwart any would-be attackers as I commute from Center City Philadelphia. This is one of the many "perks" I have encountered since moving back in with my parents.

It was amazing to me that the second I dropped my bags, I reverted to being a child again and filled my rightful place in the household dynamic. I am 29 + 3 years old and I'm pretty sure I've come dangerously close to throwing a temper tantrum in the past year. Eye rolls and heavy sighs have been prevalent. Somehow I  managed to live on my own for almost 8 years in a separate city and state, pay my bills, get myself to work every day (not to mention be a wife) and now I'm toting around my dad's old soccer coaching whistle. There was an incident recently where the whistle came flying out of my bag in front of some co-workers. Not embarrassing at all.

But you know what? I guess my dad doesn't really make me carry the whistle. I carry it because I know it makes him feel better. Dads worry about their daughters. That is what they do. So I am going to continue to nod and smile as he watches me drive down the driveway (hey maybe I have a headlight out), calls me three times when dinner is ready (hey maybe I didn't hear the first two times), and asks me what time I am going to church on the weekends (he just doesn't want me to be a heathen).