Dad Post #215

What I have long feared – even before she was born – has come to pass: Megan has a crush on someone. There is evidence in her own handwriting, which is unflawless but still perfect, because everything about Megan is perfect; dads everywhere hold and defend a similar paradox. Yes, on a piece of paper, that I would like to both burn and frame, Megan's tender affection is in full, vulnerable view, etched softly in pencil by her angelic fingers. She is under a powerful spell, and the sorcerer – if I may – isn't Jesus, or John Lennon or James Dean, or Hiccup or Prince Charming. (Maybe you notice, as do I, the awesome impossibilities in these, my ideal candidates.) No, it's a real boy, a very cool and nice one, but a guy nonetheless. The good news: He's more interested in sports than girls right now. Courting my daughter is low priority, which, oddly enough, has me alternately relieved and then like, "WTF kid, are you blind or dumb or both?" And when the time comes, 20 or 30 years from now, Megan will be the priority; the dude better give two shits about sports when it's time to rub Megan's feet. Even I DVR the Iowa State game if Meg needs me.