I’ve often heard people refer to toddler’s age group as “the terrible twos.”  I couldn’t disagree with that stereotype more.  As I look back on my life with my children and the many wonders, joys and sorrows they have brought to it, I find those toddler years the most amazing.  Everything in their lives is an adventure at this stage.  Every moment spent with them is sure to become a poignant memory to cherish and reminisce. 

Looking back on those days with my children, and even still today, I can say unequivocally, that they have raised me as much as I have raised them.  They have shaped who I am and what I have become as much as I have shaped them.  I often wonder if they had not become part of my life just how different I would be. 

Because of them, I get to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and faeries.  I get to watch cartoons on Saturday morning until noon.  I get to play with Barbie dolls and GI Joes.  I am not chastised or made fun of because I have my own coloring book and crayons.  And even though my business associates laugh at me when I walk six feet out of my way to stomp in a mud puddle, they somehow understand that I am practicing for my next hike with my children.  Because of them I can hold on to a small piece of the little boy I was and stare in amazing wonder as we watch butterflies.

It is very disturbing when I hear tales of Fathers that have walked out on their children for one reason or another.  Or for some reason have been denied the joy of Fatherhood.  I feel as sorry for the children as I do the Father.  For he knows not what an amazing thing he has chosen to omit from his life.  I would not trade my collected memories and the future endeavors that await me and my children for anything.  They are my love, my life, my muse, my purpose, my goal and my drive.  I have lived a good life because of them.  I have a future because of them.  I have known love in its purest, unconditional form…   because of them.

As I ponder moments spent with my toddlers, one in particular comes to mind that brings tears of joy and sorrow all at the same time.  A memory that has become a story I often share with new parents and indignant Fathers.  It’s a story that still brings an overwhelming feeling of melancholy that I embrace and welcome in my daughter’s first rite of passage.

Alex started walking and talking at about the same time.  She was barely one year old.  She was such a vibrant, animated little girl.  With long blond hair, oversized blue eyes and a slight overbite that seemed cute at the time.  She was who she was going to be the moment she was born and I knew she and I would have a special relationship the first time she looked into my eyes.  She was the most beautiful living thing I had ever laid my eyes upon.   

I had an outside sales job and would come home in the evening at all hours.  My wife was very understanding.  There was always a warm plate of food waiting for me and she never enforced bedtime on my daughter until after Daddy came home.  Not that she would have went to bed without waiting for me.  Even then she was quite independent and stubborn; Daddy’s little night owl.   

I can still hear her little feet hit the floor as I opened the door, racing through the house to greet me.  Her little voice singing with excitement, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” all the way to the door and my waiting arms. It was sweet music to my tired ears.  I would drop my briefcase to the floor, open my arms and wait for her embrace and the dance she and I would share, spinning in a circle as we hugged and kissed.

I can still hear the beautiful words she spoke as we danced,  “Daddy!  I wuff you too much!  You’re my be-e-e-st friend.”  She would always put the emphasis on the word “best” making the sentence last slightly longer than any adult would ever dare.  We did this every night when I came home.  I don’t think anyone has ever been more excited to see me.  I have never felt more loved than those moments in her arms as we shared our dance. 

One night I came home and readied myself for our embrace.  Anticipating our evening dance.  I listened for the little voice crying out my name, but it never came.  I called out for her, but there was no reply.  With a slight panic in my walk I made my way down the hall, the fear mounting as I wondered what could have happened to my little girl.  I of course thought the worse. 

As I walked into the living room I found her.  She was lying on her belly, chin in her hands, intently watching a purple dinosaur on the television.  She looked at me with those big, beautiful blue eyes, barely acknowledging my presence and said, “Hi Daddy.”  proudly announcing, “Barney is my best friend.”  She then turned her attention back to the television like I wasn’t even there.  “What about me?”  I recall thinking, as I walked away crushed, heartbroken and replaced. 

I always knew this replacement would come.  I had prepared myself for her to choose her friends over me.  I always knew a boy would come along that would become her every waking thought.  And I knew, albeit I know one day a man will come along and become her hero, her champion.  But I was not prepared for my baby to find a new best friend so soon and end our evening dance.

I acquired an instant disdain for television that evening, one that I still feel today.  And yet in the back of my mind I know, if it hadn’t been Barney, it would have been a dog, a cat, a teddy bear or some other icon she would have chosen to be her first test of independence; her first move towards individuality.  And now that she is a young woman, full of the same vibrant animation, I long to hear the beautiful song she sang as she ran through the house to dance with Daddy.  I know we’ll never dance like that again.     But because I was there we did and I have that memory… and memories are forever.

If I could turn back the hands of time and relive just one moment over again… it would be that dance at the door with my daughter, when I was her best friend.