My daughter turned nine last week.
People say the second child often gets the short end of the stick. Fewer photos. Less wonderment at the things they do. More casual behavior from the parents, since we’ve “been there and done that” with the first.
If that’s been the case, over the years she’s more than convinced us we take her for granted at our own peril.
She broke her arm on my watch when she was three, falling off the monkey bars while scampering at our neighborhood playground. Never once during those four weeks in a tiny purple cast did she complain. Never once did she slow down, either.
She’s a bookhound who regularly parks herself in the corner of her room to grow her giant brain, as she puts it. It’s growing, as she recently explained to me, an English major, what a cinquain was. It’s OK. You can look it up. I had to.
Like all fathers, I revel in what my daughter is now, and I dream of what she will become someday.
I take my responsibility seriously to show her the world; to teach her right from wrong; to impart upon her the importance of helping others. I want to help her face her fears and overcome them; to teach her to push herself when she wants to quit; to grow her brain and never stop learning.
Our society does not always offer up the best role models for women. We send mixed messages about behavior, dress, career aspirations and other critical standards that shape how girls develop.
As her father, it’s my role to help counter those often negative influences. Nothing I do is more important than that.
I’m Wester Wuori, and that’s my fatherly perspective.
