longer do. I see me. In their eyes. In their smile. In their laughter. They’re my world, and I know I’m theirs. “Time to get ready for school.”
I fling the covers off, then lift each of my girls under an arm, carrying them out of my room and down the hall into theirs, their squeals filling our home. As I drop each off in their pastel-colored rooms laden with stuffed animals, dolls, and books, I marvel at how different my life is than it was ten years ago. Having kids was the last thing on my mind. The only thing I cared about was making a name for myself in hockey. It’s amazing how something that weighs less than eight pounds can change everything.
Over the next hour, we busy ourselves with what’s become our typical morning routine. Alyssa helps Charlotte get ready while I shower, then both girls appear in the kitchen where we eat our normal breakfast of oatmeal and fruit. I make sure I’ve signed off on any of their homework, then place the lunches Aunt Gigi has prepared for them into their bags, leaving a note reminding them how much I love them.
Like clockwork, at exactly 7:30, we walk out the door and begin the five-minute journey from our house in Needham, a suburb about a half-hour west of Boston, to the girls’ elementary school. During the colder months, I drive them on my way to my job as head hockey coach at Boston College. But now that it’s March and the weather is warming up, at least today, we walk, Charlotte enthusiastically clutching my hand. Alyssa refuses, claiming she’s too old to hold hands, just like she does every day.
On our way down the sidewalk, the girls entertain themselves. Charlotte sings about a marching duke as she stomps along with the beat, her dark curls springing with each step. Even Alyssa joins in. Trees line the quiet neighborhood, the branches still mostly barren. The bulbs will soon be in full bloom, the browns and emptiness of the winter replaced with greens, everything coming back to life.
As we approach the school, the sound of children grows louder and louder. A line of SUVs and minivans snakes around the block. Several teachers man the drop-off area to keep the flow of traffic moving as smoothly as possible. The instant we turn onto the walkway toward the front entrance, Alyssa attempts to hurry off and join the swarm of kids getting off one of the school buses parked in front of the building.
“Bye, Dad. See you later!”
“Uh-uh. Not so fast,” I call out.
She slows her steps and turns around, crossing her arms over her chest. I arch a brow, not saying a word. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this dance. And it won’t be the last.
Molly warned me of the things she did to our father when she was a teenager. From making him drop her off several blocks from wherever she was meeting her friends, to the incessant eye rolling, to the constant attitude. I’m unprepared for Alyssa to reach that stage. If I could have my way, I’d keep her eight forever. I’d keep her away from the cruelties of the real world, from people trying to convince her she’s anything but the princess she’ll always be in my eyes.
With a dramatic sigh and an even more dramatic eye roll, she shuffles back toward me. I crouch down, giving her a hug, which she weakly returns, then kiss her temple.
“Auntie Molly will be here to pick you two up after school. You’re having a sleepover there tonight.” Releasing my hold on her, I stand. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She takes off once more.
“Love ya, Lyss!”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
Three words can completely melt your heart and turn you into mush. Three words can make even the most secure and macho of men crumble into a thousand tiny pieces. Yes, when the first girl I was serious about said those three words to me, I thought it was the greatest day of my life. But nothing prepares you for the love you have for your own child. Hearing that tiny human you brought into the world say those three words back to you… It makes all the tantrums, fights, and sleepless nights worth it. In a heartbeat, you forget all the stuff that makes you reconsider whether having kids was a good idea, because when your child says those three words, it’s the only thing that matters.
I turn to Charlotte,