some great times there and the morning wait staff love seeing her each week. Hell, they’ve pretty much watched her grow up for the last two years.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go someplace else today?” I ask. Every week I try and get Fi to branch out and go someplace different for our weekly Daddy-Daughter day. We’ve been going to the Austin Zoo once a week for three years, but she loves that zoo. Maybe Fi does like a schedule.
“No, Daddy. I wanna see the animals again,” she says.
How can I resist? With that cute little voice and her pouty lower lip, she already knows how to get exactly what she wants from Daddy. Truth is, I love going to the zoo for the same reason I love our breakfasts at Waterloo: it’s our spot, and we’ve done a lot of bonding there. I already think about when she gets older and doesn’t want to go to the zoo anymore. That’ll be a sad day.
“Well, okay then, sweetie. We need to finish up so we can hit the road.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she says as she finishes her pancake. “All done. ” We say our goodbyes to the waitresses and head out the door.
It’s a beautiful April day, and a little warmer than usual for this time of year, but the sky is clear. Considering the zoo is pretty much unpaved dirt, I welcome the warm weather with no rain.
As we get to the car, I open the door for Fi and she climbs in. At five, she is tall for her age. She comes up past my hips, and I’m six-feet four. Fi also has these electric blue eyes and beautiful blonde hair that flows down past her shoulders. She’s a beautiful girl and is the spitting image of her mother. I know I’m in for a lot of trouble when she starts dating. She’s always been so mature for her age, walking at ten months, beginning to mimic our words at a year, and putting basic sentences together shortly thereafter. I’m sure all parents think their kids are “advanced.” Maybe Fi is, but all I know is that, along with her mom, she is the love of my life. I’d do anything to protect her and make her happy.
“I wanna buckle my own seatbelt, Daddy,” she says as she climbs into the car. “And then I wanna close the car door myself.” We go through this every time we get into the car.
“Alright, sweetie. Just make sure you pull the door hard enough.” As she pulls the car door, I give it a little push, unseen to her eyes, to make sure it closes properly. I can’t help it. I’m an overprotective father.
As I climb behind the steering wheel, I check my pockets to make sure I have my eye drops. Since my eye surgery six years ago, I’m pretty dependent on the drops. I had a corneal graft--so, essentially, have a piece of plastic serving as my cornea. The human body doesn’t take too kindly to having foreign, inorganic things in it, so for the last two years my body has been trying to reject the graft. I take six different drops a day to hold back the rejection. If I miss one or two drops, my eye becomes very cloudy, like trying to see through a very thick fog. You can see the shapes of objects, just not any details.
“Goddamnit,” I say a little too loud. I realize I forgot my eye drops.
“You shouldn’t say that, Daddy,” says the little voice from the backseat.
“You’re absolutely right, sweetie,” I say apologetically, “but I forgot something important at home.”
I am trying to decide if I need to go back and grab the drops. Fi usually only has a two hour trip in her. That would get us home by noon. I think I’m good.
“Do we need to go home, Daddy?” Fi sounds concerned.
“And miss the zoo? No way. Daddy’ll be okay until we get home,” I explain.
The car ride to the zoo is pretty uneventful. I play all her favorite music on the iPod and she sings the entire way there. As we drive down Rawhide Trail, approaching the zoo, the air seems to become very still.
“We’re getting closer,
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go someplace else today?” I ask. Every week I try and get Fi to branch out and go someplace different for our weekly Daddy-Daughter day. We’ve been going to the Austin Zoo once a week for three years, but she loves that zoo. Maybe Fi does like a schedule.
“No, Daddy. I wanna see the animals again,” she says.
How can I resist? With that cute little voice and her pouty lower lip, she already knows how to get exactly what she wants from Daddy. Truth is, I love going to the zoo for the same reason I love our breakfasts at Waterloo: it’s our spot, and we’ve done a lot of bonding there. I already think about when she gets older and doesn’t want to go to the zoo anymore. That’ll be a sad day.
“Well, okay then, sweetie. We need to finish up so we can hit the road.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she says as she finishes her pancake. “All done. ” We say our goodbyes to the waitresses and head out the door.
It’s a beautiful April day, and a little warmer than usual for this time of year, but the sky is clear. Considering the zoo is pretty much unpaved dirt, I welcome the warm weather with no rain.
As we get to the car, I open the door for Fi and she climbs in. At five, she is tall for her age. She comes up past my hips, and I’m six-feet four. Fi also has these electric blue eyes and beautiful blonde hair that flows down past her shoulders. She’s a beautiful girl and is the spitting image of her mother. I know I’m in for a lot of trouble when she starts dating. She’s always been so mature for her age, walking at ten months, beginning to mimic our words at a year, and putting basic sentences together shortly thereafter. I’m sure all parents think their kids are “advanced.” Maybe Fi is, but all I know is that, along with her mom, she is the love of my life. I’d do anything to protect her and make her happy.
“I wanna buckle my own seatbelt, Daddy,” she says as she climbs into the car. “And then I wanna close the car door myself.” We go through this every time we get into the car.
“Alright, sweetie. Just make sure you pull the door hard enough.” As she pulls the car door, I give it a little push, unseen to her eyes, to make sure it closes properly. I can’t help it. I’m an overprotective father.
As I climb behind the steering wheel, I check my pockets to make sure I have my eye drops. Since my eye surgery six years ago, I’m pretty dependent on the drops. I had a corneal graft--so, essentially, have a piece of plastic serving as my cornea. The human body doesn’t take too kindly to having foreign, inorganic things in it, so for the last two years my body has been trying to reject the graft. I take six different drops a day to hold back the rejection. If I miss one or two drops, my eye becomes very cloudy, like trying to see through a very thick fog. You can see the shapes of objects, just not any details.
“Goddamnit,” I say a little too loud. I realize I forgot my eye drops.
“You shouldn’t say that, Daddy,” says the little voice from the backseat.
“You’re absolutely right, sweetie,” I say apologetically, “but I forgot something important at home.”
I am trying to decide if I need to go back and grab the drops. Fi usually only has a two hour trip in her. That would get us home by noon. I think I’m good.
“Do we need to go home, Daddy?” Fi sounds concerned.
“And miss the zoo? No way. Daddy’ll be okay until we get home,” I explain.
The car ride to the zoo is pretty uneventful. I play all her favorite music on the iPod and she sings the entire way there. As we drive down Rawhide Trail, approaching the zoo, the air seems to become very still.
“We’re getting closer,
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