“I got you”

(Not the typical “those three words.”)

I lost my cool.

My daughter was acting up and squirming on her changing table while I was trying to get her into a new diaper and clothes for the day. My rational mind knew she was probably uncomfortable being on her back from teething or the umpteenth cold of the month. But lack of sleep and the pressures of day-to-day parenting got the best of me. I got upset, raised my voice and forced her into clothing somehow through her tears. Did some deep breaths to calm myself.

What happened next hit me hard. On so many levels. She’d probably picked up on me saying this to her — either from swim class jumping into the water or perhaps just reassuring her I wouldn’t let her fall. But the words rang out clear from her typically tough-to-decipher toddler tongue: “I got you!”

Eyes well. Heart sinks. And I just feel like the absolute worst father on the face of the planet. All while hugging her for as long as she’ll let me. Those words, you see, hold weight with me.

Even though he was 21 years older than my mother (yeah, I know, still amazes me), my dad was as spry as I hope to be when I grow old (…er). This could be summed up in a little game called “tag.”

I don’t know exactly when it started or why I never really took part in it, but I can clearly recall countless occasions when my father, my mother, my two aunts who lived with us, my two sisters and my brother would endlessly chase each other around the house like children on a schoolyard.

The thing about it was: the game was ALWAYS on. And you were always in play. It was quite intense. And fun. I can still picture my mom nearly out of breath, eyes in tears with laughter, yelling at my sister that she was “cheating.” (Mind you: there were no rules.)

And I cannot tell you how many times my aunt (also my Godmother), who was older than my dad, would race around the corner of the living room into her bedroom to avoid the tag of my father. He sat on his recliner throne watching The Game Show Network (daily) ready at a moment’s notice to pounce and, in his Cuban accent, say “I got you.”

It was a crisp (read: damn cold) December night in 2010. The girl who I enjoyed a full-on, late-night make-out session with a few days prior and I were on our first “actual” date. I met her outside Penelope — a cute and quaint restaurant near her Manhattan office.

I recognized her… from all the aforementioned face sucking, but also because we had been friends through friends for about two years. She was dating someone when I met her (of course) and I had already done my share of unrequited love in my youth, pining for someone who was unavailable well into college and so, the wall of friendship went up hard and fast.

Cut to: a couple months before this cold wintry night, the news of her then-single status was divulged to me by one kissyface herself. From her side, it was informational; so that I knew. From my side, it was suggestive; so that I knew. My gotta-nab-this-one instincts kicked in way before she was ready and I was way obvious with my flirtations. (I came on too strong, too soon.) She rebuffed gently and I was okay with it, pointing out I just thought she was a cool girl.

So… couple months later… couple drinks in her later… couple text exchanges later… I’m racing across Manhattan over the Brooklyn Bridge driving like Batman through the night wind. Needless to say: no longer too soon and goodbye, wall.

Our first date was all the smiles and feels you’d expect — we were both completely at ease with each other and now easily complete with each other. She suggested in an “Is this cheesy?”-way that we go see the tree. (The one at Rockefeller Center, of course. Remember? December.) “Yeah!” I’m sure I exclaimed, not wanting the night to end.

On our way to the subway, we walked together arm in arm, mostly for the warmth of one another’s bodies. Damn it was cold. I recall her noticing me shivering or my lip trembling. Like that was gonna stop me.

We got onto the packed Uptown car and didn’t see any seats available. So, we stood in the doorway; we’d only be a couple stops anyway. As the doors shut just behind us, there was nothing to brace us from the jolt of the sudden forward motion. I instinctively grabbed her around her waist and uttered words that would mean so much more than what it meant in the moment: “I got you.”

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