The girl

The baby cries, even in her dad’s arms. She squishes her face into his shirt, leaving tear stains. She closes her eyes shut, really tight, forcing big drops out and down her nose, into her mouth. She opens her eyes and looks down, then wipes it all into his shirt again. It’s alright, he can’t see the big mess on his shoulder – and most people will understand anyway, and even smile. It’s like a badge of honour, being someone’s shoulder to cry on.

The child sits backwards, facing the rest of the congregation. She makes funny faces and tries to engage the person in the behind. The lady tries to ignore the little toddler, but finds it difficult with such big baby eyes staring without blinking, looking for attention. The lady looks down and grins making the girl squeal in delight, sending her spinning around to hug her mum, who is paying attention to the sermon, unaware of what is going on behind her.

The girl dances around in the mall. Twirling around like a top, narrowly missing other shoppers. Her Heely shoes give her the speed she needs to whizz down the narrow walkway, hurtling towards a crash, but coming to a screeching halt with her toes pointing unnaturally upwards. She reminds me of a motorcycle weaving between traffic, like a treacherous game of life and death but brought indoors to the dismay of the strolling adults.

My daughter walks around with a book glued to her hands. She has inbuilt GPS, motion sensor and Doppler radar systems to avoid bumping into pillars and walls. While you see many adults (and kids) with phones stuck to their faces, it’s rare to see someone reading a storybook instead. People stop to look, but I think it is just to make sure she doesn’t step on their shoes. For added excitement, she sometimes couples this act together with Heelys.

Soon you won’t see the baby, the child, the girl. She’ll be at home moping over a boy or buried in her ‘O’ level textbooks. She’ll be out with her friends, pretending not to know you. There won’t be any tears, squeals or apologising to pedestrians. There won’t be that familiar holding of hands with a person so much shorter that a shoulder has to droop. Or the need to carry someone up higher so they can see the chefs at Din Tai Fung making dumplings. I will miss being that human catapult which swings her into motion from a 150 degree angle on her rocket shoes.

In the meantime, enjoy the years of being the big daddy. Hold their hands tight and be that shoulder to cry on. Don't let them grow up too fast.