I’m just a money machine.
“D-a-a-d,” she croons, in a voice that is as dulcet and sweet as confectioner’s sugar.
My role as paterfamilias has devolved into one simplified, streamlined process—buying things. The former, multifaceted roles I once played—companion, mentor, guide, protector, fall guy, comic relief—have become vestigial appendages, like tonsils.
Now I’m just a money machine (albeit with a low daily withdrawal limit).
“Daughter,” I proclaim to my 13-year-old daughter, attempting to be conversational, humorous, contemporary, “with it”—qualities I consider pre-eminent in myself and invaluable in my role.
Meagan is a sweet, beautiful young thing transforming with frightening rapidity into a woman, bursting out of her former shape and style, like a rose in time-lapse photography.
“What, Dad?” says she, imbuing the “what” with a certain sarcastic impatience, a tone parents everywhere recognize instantly. The “what” of the…