Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Beyond the obvious, I mean. Was I this much a pain in the ass at twelve, constantly acting like I was going on twenty-five and full-grown? Probably, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.
As a single dad, I’ve had all the puberty talks with her, discussing how hormones can fluctuate and make her cry, feel happy, and want to murder someone with her bare hands, all within the blink of an eye. With her starting middle school, we’ve talked about friends, boys, and staying focused on the things that matter, namely her classes and grades. I’m engaged, attentive, and dialed in on the dad front as best as I can be. Yet, I am still utterly baffled by Grace’s whiplash changes from the little girl who called me Daddy to the pre-teen who now calls me Dad, with the occasional three extra ‘a’ syllables for good measure.
What happened to the gap-toothed kid who pleaded for piggyback rides and was only satisfied when I galloped around the yard like the horse she wanted, neighing as she kicked her little legs?
You bought her a horse, dumbass.
Yeah, that’s true. I did do that, and the piggyback-slash-horse rides stopped about the same time, so I guess that’s on me. Like everything else.
In the kitchen, I sprinkle a bit of powdered sugar on Grace’s microwaved pancakes as a goodwill gesture and finish packing my briefcase for the day while simultaneously chugging a protein shake that’ll keep me going until lunch.
“Dad?” Grace’s voice has gone soft, and when I turn to her, she’s standing in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertain and seeming so much younger than she did just moments ago.
I freeze, something about her tone stopping my clipped movements in their tracks as my mind instantly begins to race. Has she started her period? Is she confused about where babies come from? Did she fail another math test? Is she about to throw up? Am I?
“Yes?” I grit out, praying I’m overreacting, which is something I don’t do. Well, something I don’t think I do. My family might have a conflicting opinion about that, but they can keep that judgment to themselves for all I care.
“Does my hair look frizzy?” She begins twisting a long strand of her natural curls around her finger as she stares at it critically.
I swear to God, I almost laugh. Her hair? That’s what the tone is about, not some catastrophic puberty-oriented disaster? Thankfully, I catch myself before the patronizing dismissal passes my lips.
This is a moment. One of the ones I’ve been warned about in the numerous books I’ve read. To me, her hair looks fine. The same as usual. To her, the question is a sign there’s something bigger going on than hair.
I run my hand over her head, patting her affectionately. “Not at all. It looks healthy and clean, and your curls are gorgeous. They hang well off your shoulders, in my opinion. Why?” I ask cautiously.
She releases the lock she’s wrapped around her finger, throwing it behind her back as she shrugs. “I dunno. Hannah said I should straighten it so it’s not frizzy.” She wiggles her hands on either side of her head as if her hair is standing out wildly and not laying down her back in perfect ringlets.
“Ah,” I say, nodding wisely as I look at my daughter’s hair again, betting this is why she’s running late this morning. But this isn’t about hair, not really. It’s about Grace and Hannah, her best friend. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?” She shakes her head sullenly. “Did you tell her that what she said hurt your feelings? I’m sure she’d apologize if she realized.”
The girls have been friends since the first day of sixth grade, and according to the books I’ve read about the teenage years and my own common sense, having someone at your side through the rough days of middle school is of the utmost importance to have a positive experience. Grace and Hannah have been that for each other, clinging together even inside their larger friend group.
“No, I didn’t say anything to her,” she huffs, plopping down at the island where she starts shoveling pancakes into her mouth at rapid-fire pace. I’m not even sure she’s chewing them and not just sucking down whole chunks like the Dyson we have for the living room carpet. Either way, she certainly doesn’t give a shit about my peace offering of powdered sugar.
“You should,” I suggest.
She grunts, sounding oddly like me rather than her usual talkative self. Barely a minute later, a horn honks out front. “That’s MeeMaw, gotta go!”
Grace makes it sound like she was the one rushing and I’ve been holding her back, not the other way around, but that’s okay. As long as she’s out the door, goes to school, and doesn’t get into trouble, it’ll be fine.