Daddies, Daughters, Donuts

I'll take a raspberry bismark here and there but, for the most part, I have little need to digest puffy mounds of sugar.

I am, however, a fan of my two little girls.

Call us old-fashioned, but my wife and I didn't want to know before the delivery the gender of our first baby. We wanted the surprise. One of my deepest fears, though, was that it would be a girl.

And I knew nothing about little girls.

It wasn't that I particularly wanted a baby boy instead of a girl. It really didn't matter to me. As long as the baby arrived and both mother and child came through it in good health, I wasn't going to be greedy enough to start demanding a preference. My problem was I wanted to be involved in this child's life. If it was a boy, it was a done deal. We'd go to baseball games, football games, basketball games. We'd sit at the dinner table and talk about baseball game, football games and basketball games.

But ... if it was a girl?

It was still four months until the delivery and I found myself already being shut out, just the possibility of this little one being a girl. My wife did her best to soothe my fears, trying to convince me I'd be a great father no matter what gender the baby was. Driving home from work one afternoon, I passed a sign in a small town. It was an old-fashioned donut shop, a locally-owned operation in a drab building. The sign read, "Big Daddy's Donut Palace."

"Nice name," I thought to myself.

Then, it hit me.
If it was decided that my wife and I were supposed to be the parents of a little girl, I'd find a way to bond with her. Whether she liked it or not!
Sure enough, we had a beautiful baby girl. She had big, puffy cheeks and very little hair.

And I had a plan of action.

I waited until she was about six months old; wanting her to be able to at least realize what was going on around her. We'd awaken on Saturday morning, and, as my wife slept, dress quietly and slip out into the car. We'd head to Big Daddy's to relax and talk about the week we'd just had.

My daughter didn't do much talking in those first few months. Even if she'd been able to form complete sentences, though, it wouldn't have mattered. She was too busy stuffing donuts in her mouth. Glazed ones, chocolate (her favorite) ones.

As she grew a little older, we actually began to use the time together to talk and laugh. We looked forward all week to our time together on Saturday morning. I called it "Daddy-Daughter Donut Day." As soon as my little girl would see me walk into her room, she'd know it was Saturday morning by the bright smile on my face. I'd sing, "It's Daddy-Daughter Donut Day!" and she'd try to mimick the words, her excitement building.

Over the past 11 years, we've found new donut shops, we've invited other fathers and daughters to join us and we've even added another daughter of our own to the mix. The owner of our local donut shop is like a member of our family. She's watched my daughters grow and mature over the past five years. My oldest daughter lost her first tooth while sitting in the donut shop, taking a big bite of a chocolate cake treat.

The long-range plan is to continue the tradition - for as long as my daughter allows it, anyway. We've already reached the point that - some Saturdays - she'd rather sleep in than get dressed and battle cold weather, all in the name of some silly conversation with her goofy dad.

I'm already planning my first visit to see her in college, where I'll randomly show up one Saturday morning in hopes that she won't mind one more Daddy Daughter Donut Day.