Meet Grace

A tribute to my youngest daughter, who is now 10

Meet Grace.

She’s pretty amazing.

And cool.

And funny.

And one of the most awesome people I know.

Oh, and she also happens to be my youngest daughter.

I’m trying to remain objective and I’m failing.

I just love her.

Grace turned 10, while I just turned 47 (“which makes you MUCH older” she recently reminded me of).

There is so much I love about her, it’s almost impossible to count (56 to be exact). But, if I was forced to choose a few (am I?), I’d select her smile, her hair, and the way her smile and hair work together in unison to create that certain look she has got going on.

And she has it going on.

In spades.

I initially thought about writing one of my usual loving, rambling, semi-coherent, partially-sensical, is-your-father-okay piece about a family member that is as much about me and my desire to massage my ego as it is about the person themselves, but time got the better of me.

See, she turned 10 last Thursday.

Plus my fingertips are sore (partially true).

And I have to make dinner soon.

So, Grace, with this piece of writing, I want to focus on all the things about you I don’t want to forget as you continue to grow and evolve and I continue to age and devolve.

I’ve been told my memory won’t always be what it is.

And neither will my good looks.

You can cease laughing now.

So, I am aiming to capture the joy de vivre of this whirling dervish of a child using words, spaces between words and bordering-on-excessive punctuation!!!!

To be honest, I almost made this a list, but stopped, as Grace, you are one great kid that deserves so much more than a list, which is why I’ve decided to write this using sentences. Now, you may rightfully say that short sentences are essentially the same as a list minus the bullet or numbers, to which I say, ‘look a squirrel!’.

Anyways, Gracie, here is a small collection of just the tip of the iceberg of the things I love about you. The rest of the iceberg will be yours when you turn 18.

For as long as I can remember (not saying much), your face is the first one I see each morning.

My routine, for those who don’t live with or spy on me (it’s an increasingly short list), is to wake up first, head downstairs, boil some water and get lunches and breakfasts organized for the family.

And then, at precisely 6:50 am (or 6:52, if I’m up for the challenge) I go upstairs to rouse the kids.

Grace is always first.

Not sure why.

I try not to ask too many questions.

And I stand there, a few feet from her bed and look at her lost in her dreams.

It’s wonderful.

I am the sole audience as her chest rises and falls and the sunlight gives her an angelic glow that many women would pay handsomely for.

Perfect.

So innocent, so peaceful and I wonder, each morning, how I ever got this fortunate, this lucky to have not one, but two of these little human females in my possession (I did check and the law is hazy at best).

Her bed is always a mess and it’s like pulling teeth to get her to tidy it (I wanted to try both, but she, for some reason, refused to sit still), but let’s try to stay positive.

I usually lay down beside her, nibble on her elbow, lightly brush the tiny baby hairs on her head and hug her before playfully whispering “Gracie, it’s time to wake up”.

It’s at this point she usually rolls over and unknowingly (I think) almost pushes me off the bed before, at the last second, her hand grabs my arm and she pulls me towards safety.

She is always doing that.

She grins.

Then she licks my nose.

And tickles under my neck.

And smacks my bum.

And cackles.

I’m not surprised.

This is Grace we are talking about.

Grace never stops talking.

Whether it’s an overly wordy description of every literally single thing that happened during lunch or completely explaining why she got questions wrong on her spelling test or telling me, in extreme detail, about something important to her, Grace is never at a loss for words.

From the moment I pick her up from school, it’s like she’s a play-by-play announcer talking a mile a minute (the conversion to metric is confusing at best).

And it’s so adorable except when it’s bedtime or we are rushing or she needs to focus on the task at hand (it’s hard to talk and do homework or talk and eat).

But, thankfully, there is a rarely a dull moment in her life.

I don’t imagine there ever will be, what with her spirit.

Social in ways I can’t comprehend, she makes friends at the drop of a hat (I’ve tried arguing that the excessive hat dropping is completely unnecessary to no avail). Her social intelligence is off-the-charts which is only partially due to the comically small chart paper I bought to save money.

So many times we’ve been at the park or pool or even the library and within 5 minutes, she is walking up to me saying “here is my new friend” while her sister and I watch in awe.

We gave up trying not to gape years ago.

Mostly.

Grace is just excited and exciting.

Go, go, going all day long.

Attacking life.

Like some sort of wild cat or bear or particularly rambunctious dolphin.

And I’ve been a willing participant, chauffeur and companion every step of the way.

You may have seen us.

Prowling around as if on parade.

Often the two of us walk holding hands (that’s one hand each, in case you were wondering) with a skip in our steps.

I love this.

I know full well that there will be a moment where she won’t want to — maybe she’ll be embarrassed or just outgrow it.

It will happen.

The day is on the horizon.

But, it hasn’t come yet.

So we stride, confidently, wherever it is we are going, just beaming (my forehead is perpetually shiny and I fully blame my ancestors).

I feel like proudly saying to strangers on the street with slightly too much volume in my voice “I helped make her!”

Because I did.

I’ll spare you the details I’m only partially aware of.

She’s like my badge of honour, my hard-to-win prize and my impossible shiny trophy all rolled into one. I’d display her in my office at work if I could, but “she has to go to school” everyone says, so countless photos and drawings of her must suffice.

She’s my membership card to this really awesome exclusive club that has a hot tub and a steam room and unlimited toast.

And, after another busy day, I sit there, on her bed and read to her as she draws another picture.

Grace is constantly drawing.

Pictures of princesses and characters and images of the dynamic world inside her head.

Pages and sketches are everywhere around our house.

Always creating.

And, just before closing her eyes on another day, she lays there, listening to me read, her head leaning against my shoulder, or her feet propped up on my legs.

I’ve always read to her and I always will.

That’s not meant to sound like a threat.

Grace lazes through her mornings as she eats breakfast as if on vacation, blissfully unaware of the stress and pressure I feel that am trying to share with her (sharing makes up a huge proportion of caring around our house).

Grace has this special skill where she is able to make one single piece of English muffin or bite of egg last a lifetime as she savours each delicious morsel while, somewhere in the distance, she must hear me yelling as if in slow motion “do you have any idea what time it is?”

She doesn’t.

And yes, we bought her a watch.

See, our Grace controls both time and space.

We arrive at school, somehow never late, and without fail, she leans forward and kisses me before saying “see ya later, dad.” I sometimes wish she would mix it up and say something else, but it is quite fitting.

Let me let you in on a little secret — I have this special ability.

No, it has nothing to do with wizardry or memorizing pointless sports statistics regardless of how it looks.

See, I can print photos in my brain.

The sarcastic standing ovation wasn’t necessary.

But, really, I can.

See, I close my eyes, and in a millisecond I see her, backpack on one shoulder, running into the school, excitement and joy on her face, red hair bouncing all around nullifying the careful brushing that just took place moments earlier, and turning back to look at me one last time before the school swallows her up.

Our eyes meet.

Her pretty face so happy.

Looking at me.

And.

Nothing else matters.

For a second.

Then life continues as I drive to work and go about my day before seeing her again later.

One thing no one knows, is that just after that brief shared moment, I get a small lump in my throat, a slight shiver in my spine and goosebumps on my arms.

Often fighting back a tear.

Every day.

I’m getting it checked out.

It’s the small things that get to me.

They always have.

Once it was her cute laugh and wide eyes as she learned to crawl as a baby fully aware (and a bit cocky) about how cute she was.

Then it was teaching her to read and bike and decypher hidden messages in the newspaper.

These days, I have the privilege of watching her play in a squash match or perform in a dance show or build a castle on the beach before smashing it to smithereens.

It all make me teary.

Good thing I’m not macho or vain or playing a bit part on an excruciatingly-hard-to-digest reality show.

Like with her sister before her, I’ve been there guiding her and shaping her throughout the years with a schoolgirl-level excitement for the supposed and promised “gravy years” that everyone has told me and salivated about (clean up on aisle me).

I think I’ve been a pretty good dad and I have to hold myself back from constantly air high fiving myself or celebrating with cake.

So, I sit here, next to her at the dance studio we come to each Saturday morning, waiting for her sister to finish class, trying to conceal that I am writing this tribute about her (I once wrote one on her, but it was hard to keep that a secret).

I often begrudge these early mornings or the days dropping the kids off at school or the seemingly constant making of food that she keeps eating for some reason causing me to shop and cook more food.

Grace, each and every moment with you — even the smallest details — feels larger than life to me.

I need more sleep.

And tighter socks.

And cleaner glasses.

But, being you dad is just so meaningful.

I love it.

Yet, I am on borrowed time.

There will be a day, fast approaching, where the mornings and evenings will all be different. Not worse, not better, but different.

I will miss the kiss and seeing you bounce off to school or wherever you may bounce to in the future (remember my message to you — never stop bouncing — don’t think about it too much, it’s deep).

I will miss this time we are in right now, so much.

But, I will always have the picture in my head.

Forever.