with Avi Spivack
Hi, I'm Avi, and I try to put the work and the dad together, with mild success. This is all about trying to give you a view from what it looks like on the dad-man's side of the world, and I hope you find my ruminations humorous because I try not to take myself too seriously.
When anyone asks me how old my daughter is, I usually say (with wry, sardonic wit, and a pinch of sarcasm):
They look at me, confused, so I clarify.
“She is six, but she is going on sixteen.”
And it’s true.
Our rambunctious, monkey-like, silly, Ramona-Quimby-reading first-grader is just around the corner from being that sixteen year-old teenage daughter that will cause me to have double-bypass surgery in my early years. I just know it.
And still, I say all of this half-jokingly.
At least I DID, until last week, when innocence was lost. Tossed out the window, off the cliff, and is almost nearly and basically gone forever.
What happened was this:
At my rents’ home for dinner, we asked child to demonstrate some of the steps she learned in her amateur dance class.
She kicks off the routine, doing the cha-cha, and then, as she gets into the swing of it, she looks at me, and with the most natural of movements, with not a care in the world, she…
at me. Smiled, and kept going.
I stood there in shock. Frozen. Unclear on what had just happened.
But it had.
My little baby had just winked, a come-hither, an I’m-too-cool-for-this-shirt wink.
And my world collapsed. I shook my head in disbelief.
And I kiss her every chance I get.
Because the moments are dwindling.
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