A daughter with her father

My daughter turned thirteen this year, a real-life teenager. For a single dad, every day is a new learning experience. I read the morning paper and sip my coffee, put her lunch together as well as mine for work, clean up the kitchen from last night, and notice she isn’t dressed yet. “Hey, we need to leave; can you peel yourself away from that screen for like two minutes and go get dressed?” Whatever I said must have been the most offensive thing since “Good morning,” because a look of repulsion came over her face like I just listened in on the conversation with her and her pink-haired friend.

She acquiesces, but time is irrelevant to a teenager. “We have to go ... ” I call out 322 times.

We finally managed to get into the car and headed over to the middle school. She takes my phone which is attached to the Bluetooth, and suddenly Korean rap music blasts from the speakers, nearly putting me into a-fib. I look over, and she is reciting every word on cue even the pauses in the song are on point. “Who needs coffee when you have this,” I say to her.

I am lucky, though, compared to some of the other parents of modern teenagers. My daughter is the only one of her friends that hasn’t succumbed to the practice of caking themselves with makeup or dying their hair every color but normal. She did one day attempt to bring it up in conversation, “hey daddy, what would you think about half my hair being black and half white?”

“Like a skunk?” I said.

“No, that isn’t even funny. A streamer that I follow, and think is just amazing, he has hair like that. You wouldn’t understand,” she said and gave me a fake smile and eye roll.

“Clearly, I don’t understand a lot of things sweetheart. I don’t understand why humans learn to talk before adulthood, why it's frowned upon to drink before 10 a.m., why it is legal for certain zodiac signs to get married, why fast food is considered food, why the government covers up the fact that aliens exist? And…”

“And…I’m at school, unlock the door,” my daughter says and leaps out of the car. “Bye, love you,” she says.

“Have a great day, I love you more,” I respond. I know in six months; she will make me drop her off on the corner instead of right in front of the school. “I can walk from here,” I can already hear her say.