317. - Dad Crush

It’s not about being a perfect dad. His kid still had chocolate on her face for the entire two hours. His shirt had a spit-up stain on the shoulder. He tripped over a toy truck twice.

But thanks for reminding me that the hottest thing a person can wear isn’t a suit.

So, why am I writing this?

Because I used to think romance was candlelit dinners and “Netflix and chill.” I used to think a crush required mystery and six-pack abs. 317. Dad Crush

To the guy at the indoor playground: I’m not going to talk to you. That would ruin the magic. Plus, you’re probably married and I’m just here for the Wi-Fi.

This is the big one. You know the move. The toddler is screaming. Her ponytail is falling into her eyes. Without breaking eye contact with the slide, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a spare hair tie (A SPARE!), and in one fluid motion, gathers her fine, wispy hair into a lopsided but functional pineapple on top of her head. He didn’t even flinch when he accidentally pulled a knot. He just whispered, “Oops, sorry bug.”

Last week, I watched him spend eleven minutes convincing his daughter that applesauce is a valid food group. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten to leave. He simply sat on the floor, cross-legged, and asked, “Do you want the purple pouch or the green one?” When she threw the green one on the floor, he picked it up, wiped it on his shirt, and tried again. Eleven minutes. I felt my cold, cynical heart do a backflip. It’s not about being a perfect dad

His name is Dad.

Here is why I am utterly, irrevocably smitten:

He doesn’t know I exist. He’s too busy pushing a reluctant three-year-old on the squeaky red swing. He’s wearing the uniform of the species: faded band t-shirt (Nirvana, always Nirvana), cargo shorts with too many pockets, and New Balance sneakers that have seen better grass stains. He tripped over a toy truck twice

But he showed up. He tried. And he did it with a gentleness that made me feel like maybe the world isn’t entirely doomed.

I have a crush. A big one.

Let me set the scene. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I take my toddler to the same indoor playground. It smells faintly of stale coffee and sweaty socks. There’s a sad-looking rubber plant in the corner and a broken ball pit net that’s been “getting fixed” since March.

No, not my dad. That would be weird. I mean the Dad. The archetype. Specifically, the version of him I’ve been watching over my morning coffee for the last six months.

It’s patience.