317. Dad | Crush

It’s patience.

He doesn’t know I exist. He’s too busy pushing a reluctant three-year-old on the squeaky red swing. He’s wearing the uniform of the species: faded band t-shirt (Nirvana, always Nirvana), cargo shorts with too many pockets, and New Balance sneakers that have seen better grass stains. 317. Dad Crush

Most of us parents are running on fumes and caffeine. We are counting the minutes until nap time. But this guy? When his kid runs toward him with a fistful of wood chips, yelling “Dada!” he looks at her like she just won the Nobel Prize. He doesn’t check his phone. He doesn’t sigh. He just scoops her up and spins her around until they both get dizzy. It’s patience

I have a crush. A big one.

This is the big one. You know the move. The toddler is screaming. Her ponytail is falling into her eyes. Without breaking eye contact with the slide, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a spare hair tie (A SPARE!), and in one fluid motion, gathers her fine, wispy hair into a lopsided but functional pineapple on top of her head. He didn’t even flinch when he accidentally pulled a knot. He just whispered, “Oops, sorry bug.” He’s wearing the uniform of the species: faded

Romance is a man who knows where the spare diapers are. A crush is watching someone be kind when no one is watching (except for the creepy lady in the corner nursing a cold brew, i.e., me).