Fifteen

“Padre.” This is how our middle chooses to refer to me. Our oldest, I learned the other day, “adopted” the nickname as well and took it a step further in her phone, in which I’m saved as “Mi Padre.” No Spanish heritage anywhere in the background that I’m aware of, and only English spoken in the home, yet, there you have it.

It’s a term of endearment, I know, whether she understands what that is or not, and a strong indication, if I think about it, that somewhere we crossed that unofficial threshold of existing as merely a random couple of adults raising her and her siblings to actual parents, and not merely “mother and father” but “mom and dad.” There is a difference, mind you.

She’s 15 today. If I’m brutally honest, there have been plenty of times I wasn’t sure we’d make it this far. Parenting via fostering/adoption is tough, tougher with certain kids more than others. The trauma and instability some have experienced, to which they often cannot give proper voice, ends up shared with you in your home, making the ultimate goal of connection all the more challenging. With patience and persistence, however, I would tell my younger self, it can happen.

We weren’t present for the earliest years. We became a part of her life at 7 years of age, with Barbie dolls and Disney sitcoms, transitioned to fastidious concerns over hair and makeup, and now we’re on the cusp of a learners permit, a responsibility for which she can hardly wait to enjoy. Eight years isn’t a long time, and yet, it is. “The days are long, but the years fly by,” as one parent described it.

She’s smart, passionate about her feelings, has a unique kinship with animals (especially the adorable ones), and at times reveals a sixth-sense about people and whether they’re genuine or not. She can also drive me to frustration and even anger. The last several years have often been a lesson in restraint for me, an endeavor to be a mature adult rather than a righteously indignant fool. I was long known for being patient. Then we had this kid.

Yet, in spite of the fact that I have been inspired at times to uncharacteristically erupt over the immaturity of adolescent impertinence, I have clearly been able to identify in me that emotion common to all fathers of daughters, all of whom will understand me. And that is, if another attempts to bring undue harm to her, especially another man, young or old (I’m not partial in this regard), then you’d best stay clear of her “Padre.” I’ll gladly take the legal penalty for whatever follows.

So, again, she’s 15 today, an age I certainly remember, and which she’s likely to as well. There have been a lifetime’s worth of transitions with her, and I know there will be more. It should be a joy to watch your children grow, regardless of the ups and downs along the way, or, perhaps, because of them.

Happy bday to our middle, Dezira. Looking forward to what’s to come.