My Daughter is Twelve

My daughter is twelve, which, of course, means I need prayers, lots of prayers. Truth be told, I could also use nerve pills, ear plugs, and a whip and chair. She doesn’t talk a lot these days, preferring to communicate with a judgmental sigh or condescending smirk, and when she does, I have to confess I often wish she hadn’t. Despite my love and affection, despite my time, my taxi service, and my money, lots of my money, I am apparently the most annoying man in the world. Who knew?

But I don’t write this to complain. Well, that’s not exactly true. In fact, it’s not true at all. I am most certainly writing this to complain. Oh, I’d complain directly to her if it would do me good, but if you’ve ever known a twelve year old, then you know I’d be wasting my time. They’re not listening to you. But if she was, then she’d hear me say over and over in my most serious voice, “I love you.” And I do.