317. Dad Crush — Fresh & Trusted

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.

Here is why I am utterly, irrevocably smitten:

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. 317. Dad Crush

His name is Dad.

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. Last week, I watched him spend eleven minutes

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.

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. He simply sat on the floor, cross-legged, and

Romance is a man who knows where the spare diapers are. A crush is watching someone be kind when no one is watching (except for the creepy lady in the corner nursing a cold brew, i.e., me).