On Dads and Daughters

Ken and Bee. My gracious, these two are total podmates. There’s so much I could say – so much I want to preserve about their relationship in these early, simple (but not easy) days. Our family is hovering in that space where toddler will and novice parenting collide, where we’re newly navigating the delicate balance of discipline and grace, structure and agility. And Ken is our fearless captain.

He’s the pull toward spontaneity that my habitual, lover-of-routine self runs from, but is – in the end – magnetized by. People like Ken produce the laugh tracks in our world. They live in the part of the sentence that comes before “but,” because for people like Ken, that word doesn’t exist. He’s the “get in the car and go, no diaper bag necessary, we’ll figure it out along the way” kind of guy, perfectly weightless while I trek miles behind, lugging in-case-of-emergency baggage we never need. Bee is the same – or at least at this age – and I have high hopes her fun barometer will tick a bit closer to Ken’s than my own.

They’re on the move, these two – bobsledding in plastic wagons down makeshift plywood slides that bookend the office ottomans. They’re making smoothies and delivering surprise picnics and learning Chinese together, because why not? The world is their oyster.

And then there’s me – watching from the sidelines, cheering them on their quest for adventure and new and fun. Because the only thing better than becoming the apple of your daughter’s eye? Being married to him.

Image Credit: Me (hence the lack of focus)

p.s. The first time I saw Ken as a father.