And I’d be able to make it a little bit longer.
I’ve learned that is what parenting is sometimes—making it just a little bit longer.
“I’m not old enough to drive a motorcycle,” she teases me.
“And don’t you forget it,” I point at her accusingly, but the smile on her face and the way the worry eases show me that she knows I’m joking with her.
“I’d really like to take dance classes,” she blurts out the words.
Rian blinks owlishly a few times and then squares her shoulders and holds her head up just a little bit higher. My mouth goes dry and it’s hard to swallow for a moment.
I’m assaulted with memories of a girl I once knew. She might as well have been soaring whenever she danced. The number of hours I watched her dance felt limitless at the time, but now I look back and realize it wasn’t nearly enough.
There was a time in my life when I could see a future with Brielle. Marriage. Kids. Forever. It felt like something I could touch.
But I forgot about her wings. She needed to chase her dreams; all of which involved lights I couldn’t bask in and stages I wouldnever sit in front of. For me, back then, I had no idea where life was taking me.
I shake off the memory. No good can come from courting ghosts and a future that only lives in the past.
My eyebrows pull together as I ask my daughter, “Why did you look worried about asking me about dance lessons? If you want to dance, you know I’ll make it happen.”
“You’re so busy,” she explains honestly without any judgement, “and I know how valuable your time is.”
“But I’ll always make time for you,” I tell her fiercely.
The smile she shoots me is huge and toothy. I can’t help but notice her two missing teeth and my heart clenches.
“I know, Dad,” her tone is slightly sassy, as if I’m the one being ridiculous. “That’s kind of the problem.”
I rear back because I’m fairly sure my sweet-as-pie nine-year-old just slapped me. Well, she might as well have.
My tone is incredulous and growly, “Excuse me?”
“No, no,” she waves her hands slightly, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You would make time to take me to dance without question. For all I know you’d become like those dance moms on that show and even learn how to sew on sequins and use a curling iron.”
I cross my arms across my chest and glare at my daughter without any real heat behind it. “I would become the king of the curling iron.”
“I know,” she sighs and huffs out a little laugh. “And you would do it without thinking about how it would make life harder on you. You’d figure it out. But I’m asking for danceclasses only if you really can spare the time. If you can’t then I’d also be fine with a phone,” she brightly offers.
“We’ve talked about a phone, little miss,” I remind her even though I know she’s well aware.
“I’m just saying, there are other options if you really don’t have the time.” She holds her hands up in surrender.
There’s a selfish part of me which wants to say no. To tell her right now that I can’t find the time because there never seem to be enough hours in the day.
But this is within my power to give her, and I’ll never say no when her eyes are sparkling like they are right now.
If she had a mother worth a damn, this might be something they would do together. But Shania was never going to be the mother Rian deserved. I’m not sure if I’m the father she deserves either, so I suppose there is some sort of symmetry there.
The difference is that I’m here. I’ll always be here for her.
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to see what you get when the day rolls around,” I tease her and she rolls her eyes. “What flavor cake do you want to do this year?”
“Carrot cake,” she says as if she’s been waiting to be asked.
My face twists up and I can’t help but show my disgust at the notion. “Adding vegetables to cake should be a crime,” I snarl the words, meaning them to the depth of me, even though it’s the most ridiculous thing to have a strong opinion about.
“I’m pretty sure a cake is the only way I’m going to get a vegetable in you,” she looks me over with a haughtiness of a woman beyond her nine years. “How else am I going to manage it?”