It can’t be easy, being a dad. I think it’s probably especially hard to be the dad of daughters, because everyone knows that daughters are mysterious and mercurial creatures, sprung from moonbeams and seafoam and a sprinkling of fairy dust. They are hard to hold and even harder to understand, these girls, who operate on a completely different scale than yourself. You’re pretty sure–and a little afraid–that they harbor many secrets that you’ll never be privy to.
Sometimes you watch them out of the corner of your eye as you scan the evening paper, drink in the bouncy curls, the frothy skirts twirling around tender knees, the easy and loose way they have of owning a room. How do girls do that, you wonder? Enter a room and claim it as theirs, whether by beauty or wit or temperament or a squeal of delight? No matter the method, they manage it, and you are irritated and charmed at the same time.
You hold them softly, like butterflies, even on days they are tiger-ish, because to you they will always be butterflies. You think that if you were to grasp them right now, these girls who have grown far too big for your hands, you would still feel the fluttery pulse, the cadence of creatures yearning to fly.
This is for you.
Today, I am lucky enough to spend a day out at the ballgame with two of my favorite men. And the minxes, and Mama, and Awesome Stepkid Ro, and our Paola. Many Chicago dogs will be eaten, a few craft beers will sluice down gullets, and many, many, sugary snacks will fill Minx tummies. It will be Heaven. I am so grateful and so very, very lucky.