Glücklicher Geburtstag, Tochter!

Nikita is officially a teenager today.

Our relationship is challenging. Not only are the normal hormonal causes at play here – the way she goes from normal to exasperated in three seconds, gets irritated if I breath the same air that she’s breathing, and finds me to be the dumbest, most disgusting creature ever to walk the face of the earth – but the “You’re not my real dad” thing frequently rears its ugly head. She’s at that age where she’s an obnoxious little kid one minute and a woman the next. And I've made some Tier One mistakes that guarantee I’ll enjoy even less respect and affection from her than the average 13-year-old shows her mother’s man.

It’s unfortunate that these variables conspire to make our time together less than comfortable these days because she’s really a unique, amazing, compelling girl. She’s more self-aware and self-assured at 13 than I was at 30. Her intellect and self-discipline are noteworthy and rare in someone who’s not supposed to be finished developing yet. She knows things that I don’t know and is interested in things that I don’t even understand and is confident and precocious but not off-puttingly so.

It seems like just yesterday that she held my hand on the way into Meijer’s; now I can’t even get her to step outside with me if the house is on fire. She used to ask me my opinion and tell me hers; now she won’t even respond to my text messages. When I first came on the scene, she’d compete with her siblings for my time and attention; now I’m an intruder who’s barely tolerated even when I’m on my best behavior – which, if truth be told, is certainly not always, in the context of our connection.

We are connected. We both love her mother. She likes how I can drive a car and use an ATM machine. She knows I respect her academic prowess and would jump in front of a bus to save her life. There are times when she forgets we have issues and laughs and jokes with me like she used to. But we both know she‘s moving away, as she should and must, which isn't going to change for quite some time. Now it’s a figurative thing but it’ll be literal in the blink of an eye.

My first wife and I split up when our oldest daughter, Amelia, was just five, so I have no experience with 13-year-old girls. I’m trying to do the right thing – now – but it really is hard. It’s hard to be my best when Nikita’s at her worst. I want to make the most of this opportunity but too often patience takes a back seat to frustration. I know I don’t convey to her how important she is, to me and to the world. Whenever I ruminate on this, I always pledge to rectify it but when it comes to Nikita, my best intentions often remain just that.

Maybe when she sees how cool I think she is, when she realizes that I’m more than my loud voice and bad temper, we’ll get along better. Maybe we’ll forgive and forget and start anew. Maybe the times when I listened to her practice her French Horn and drove her to swim practice will trump the times when I succumbed to impulse and raised my voice. Maybe she’ll believe me when I tell her I’m proud of her and still enjoy being around her and wish I had been just like her when I was her age.

Most importantly, I hope she has a fantastic celebration of her 4,748th day on Planet Earth. I’m so glad she’s here, on the same continent that I’m on, the same city, the same house. Our challenges notwithstanding, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Daughter

A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent,
holding earth and sky together with her shadow.
She sleeps upstairs like mystery in a story,
blowing leaves down the stairs, then cold air, then warm.
We who at sixty should know everything, know nothing.
We become dull and disoriented by uncertain weather.
We kneel, palms together, before this blossoming altar.

~ James P. Lenfestey