Somewhere between the Lake Geneva Starbucks and the Wight Canyon debacle, Taylor Swift took control of my car. Yes, that Taylor Swift. Tall, blonde, beautiful, wry Taylor Swift. She wasn’t in my car mind you, but she was on the radio and her lyrics hung on both the air and the lips of my little girl May. You see, Taylor Swift is May’s favorite singer, and when “the princess song” might be passed over when i-driving through the stations, the back seat command is clear. “Daddy, turn it to the princess song”. Yes Ma’am. She’ll hum along and “sing” the words, but it’s more like a mumble because the smile on her face makes it tough to form the words properly. I find it so delightful, I have to admit that I scan the dial seeking out the princess song, just so I can see the look of pure joy on her face and then listen to her stumble through the words, faithfully enunciating the word “princess” whenever it fits.
May, who’s name is the same as my mother’s maiden name, just turned 3, and every day she cements herself as my favorite little girl. Growing up in a home with three brothers, and having Sir Thomas as my firstborn, I wasn’t really sure what to expect when we brought home this x chromosome ladened child. It was impossible for me to imagine that she’d become both the crack up of the family and the bain of her brother’s existence all before the age of 3, but that’s exactly what she did. She’s also become the apple of her daddy’s eye, and that’s a feeling that can only be appreciated by a father who has himself raised a little girl. Father’s who abandon their children, or feign interest in their children, please stop reading and go give yourself a beating. Last week, my wife took the kids home to her miserable, cold, flooding, socialist Canadian homeland, as I spent my days and nights readying my REO purchase for occupancy (Pictures tomorrow). I missed the kids, and with Rain Man intensity, called them both morning and night to be sure they were ok, and to be sure May and I got our bedtime prayers in together. In our morning calls, when Thomas could barely find the time to say hello to me, what with all those toys and foreign socialist cousins begging to be bullied, I’d ask May how she slept and what she dreamed about. She always says she dreams about me, and when I ask what we were doing, that reply is always the same as well. “We were swimming, in Grandpa’s lake”. We’re always swimming in grandpa’s lake. No matter what the day, no matter what the dream, we’re always swimming. Oh, and I’ll bet you didn’t know that Geneva Lake actually belonged to my dad.
When I ask my kids what it is they’re looking forward to when summer comes, the theme of their varied answers is always the same. Boat rides. Swimming. Fishing. You know, the sort of things that your kids and grandkids would want to do if you had a place at the lake too. The sorts of things that I’m so lucky to be able to provide them with, and the very things that you don’t know you’re missing if you’ve never experienced them. The sorts of things that make kids happy, and happy kids make for happy dad’s. You know what else makes for a happy dad? A beautiful little girl, incoherently mumbling some pop star’s words while accompanying her dad to the Home Depot. Now if only she’ll willingly accompany me to Home Depot in 12 years.