“Not right now, Button,” I said, finally locating the elusive pasta box behind a can of green beans. “Daddy’s trying to make dinner before we both starve to death.”
I don’t know why I started calling Debbie “Button,” or even when the nickname stuck. I mean, she was cute as a button. She was little like a button. Her outie belly button begged to be poked. In a lot of strange, childlike ways, it made sense. Still, when I called her that in front of others, they usually gave me a confused look followed by a scowl. I didn’t care—and neither did Debbie. It was her special name, and we both loved it. She was my little button, after all, the fastener that somehow kept my life together—and in complete disarray.
How did kids do that?
How did they make life tolerable while simultaneously upending any sense of order or structure?
My musing again dissolved as her squeaky voice paired with pouty, stomping little feet. “But I want to dance!” She stomped for emphasis, her pigtails bouncing. “Please? Just one song?”
“Baby, I need to—” I started, then stopped. Her bottom lip jutted out to prepare for what I knew from experience would escalate into full-scale waterworks if I didn’t intervene immediately. I sighed and looked at the pot of water, then back down at Debbie.
“Fine, but only because you are so stinking cute and I love this song.” I bonked her nose with my index finger, eliciting a giggle that made my heart swell. “But then you have to let Daddy finish dinner, okay?”
Her face lit up. “Yay. Come sail with me, Daddy.”
How couldanyman deny that face?
I was more wrapped around her little finger than a Cirque du Soleil performer and her silks. I was mush, and she knew it.
Annoying little Button.
Before I could say another word, she was racing toward the living room, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood. A moment later, Taylor Swift’s voice filled the house at a volume that probably violated several local ordinances.
I turned down the heat under the pot and followed in her wake, finding her spinning in circles in the middle of the living room, arms outstretched like a tiny tornado in Disney princess pajamas. She looked like a miniature version of the women in the Abba movie as they danced their butts off to music only they could hear.
“Dance, Daddy!”
I held out my hands, and she immediately stepped onto my feet. This was our thing—had been since she was barely able to walk. She’d stand on my feet, I’d hold her hands, and we’d sway around the living room while she giggled and tried to sing along to whatever song was playing.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready!” she squealed.
I started moving, taking exaggerated steps while she clung to my hands, her head thrown back in delight as I spun us slowly around the coffee table. She was getting bigger now—five years old, all knees and elbows—but she still fit perfectly on my feet and still trusted me completely to keep her upright and safe.
“Faster, Daddy! Faster!”
“If we go any faster, we’re going to crash into the couch,” I warned, but I picked up the pace anyway, spinning us around until the room blurred and Debbie’s laughter filled every corner of the house.
The moment was perfect.
It was a postcard or a movie or whatever kids did these days to save their memories. I wished for a snapshot, a way to freeze time and make it last forever. Why did she have to grow up?
This was exactly what I needed after a long day of dealing with teenagers who thoughtTwilightwas classic literature and trying to explain to the principal why we needed more funding for actual books instead of more computers that would be obsolete in two years.
Just me and my girl, dancing badly to pop music in our living room.
What could possibly be better?
The song was reaching its crescendo when the doorbell rang.
We both froze mid-spin, Debbie still balanced precariously on my feet, both of us slightly breathless and probably looking ridiculous.
“I’ll get it!” Debbie announced, as though I might have somehow missed the sound that was most definitely not Taylor’s whistle tone. “You stay here. I can do it by myself.”
I chuckled and shook my head. She really was growing up too fast.
“It’s the mailman,” she shouted back to me after peeking through the curtain, then yanked the door open before I could stop her. “The handsome one with the big arms!”
