Last week, I watched him spend eleven minutes convincing his daughter that applesauce is a valid food group. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten to leave. He simply sat on the floor, cross-legged, and asked, “Do you want the purple pouch or the green one?” When she threw the green one on the floor, he picked it up, wiped it on his shirt, and tried again. Eleven minutes. I felt my cold, cynical heart do a backflip.
P.S. If you are that dad and you’re reading this… pretend you didn’t. And can you please teach my husband the trick about the hair tie?
This is the finale. After an hour of play, the meltdown begins. The kid is arching her back like a feral cat. She does not want to go in the car seat. Most parents (me) would just brute force the straps and pray. Not Dad Crush. He kneels down in the parking lot gravel. He plays “I’m gonna get your belly!” He clicks the buckle on the count of three. When the kid finally settles, he kisses her forehead, turns on the white noise machine app on his phone, and looks up—for just a second—absolutely exhausted, but victorious.
His name is Dad.
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.”
To the guy at the indoor playground: I’m not going to talk to you. That would ruin the magic. Plus, you’re probably married and I’m just here for the Wi-Fi.
It’s not about being a perfect dad. His kid still had chocolate on her face for the entire two hours. His shirt had a spit-up stain on the shoulder. He tripped over a toy truck twice. 317. Dad Crush
Let me set the scene. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I take my toddler to the same indoor playground. It smells faintly of stale coffee and sweaty socks. There’s a sad-looking rubber plant in the corner and a broken ball pit net that’s been “getting fixed” since March.
No, not my dad. That would be weird. I mean the Dad. The archetype. Specifically, the version of him I’ve been watching over my morning coffee for the last six months.
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. Last week, I watched him spend eleven minutes
Because I used to think romance was candlelit dinners and “Netflix and chill.” I used to think a crush required mystery and six-pack abs.
But thanks for reminding me that the hottest thing a person can wear isn’t a suit.
I have a crush. A big one.
I have a confession to make. It’s a little embarrassing, a little wholesome, and entirely unexpected.
I was wrong.