317. Dad Crush 90%

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.

It’s patience.

So, why am I writing this?

Most of us parents are running on fumes and caffeine. We are counting the minutes until nap time. But this guy? When his kid runs toward him with a fistful of wood chips, yelling “Dada!” he looks at her like she just won the Nobel Prize. He doesn’t check his phone. He doesn’t sigh. He just scoops her up and spins her around until they both get dizzy. 317. Dad Crush

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. He doesn’t know I exist