It's a Girl!

No, the title doesn't mean what you think it means. You have to keep reading.

Needless to say (another stupid phrase, if it’s needless to say then why am I saying it and why do you want to read it?) the past few days have been pretty amazing. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this excited. Not just about getting married, but finally being able to live together. We’ve wanted to live together for a while now, but there were some issues with a third party that prevented that from happening. The third party being an ex-husband. Part of me would really love to rant here about everything that took place, but I’m taking the high road and there aren’t rest stops or exits on this road.

So we’re finally going to live together. Mesh my stuff and her stuff, and make it our stuff. It’s gonna be a blast. I’m a guy that actually likes figuring out how to lay out a home, where to put the furniture and more importantly, stereo equipment and video game consoles. Basically, all the things that constitute making a life together are exactly what I’m looking forward to. Even the jokes about my balls, being in a jar or some how no longer belonging to me, that I’ll undoubtedly hear at the next poker game. And let’s be honest, I’ve earned every one of those jokes because I’ve been making them for years.

But Coco, aka Shixa, brings something else to the table, something that is slightly more than a decoration or piece of property we will find a place for. She has a little girl, who I mentioned was such a big help in the Belgium waffle adventure. So for all intensive purporses, I’m basically going to be a dad. Not really a dad, but sorta. She has a father, and I’m not here to push him out of the picture, to replace him, to one up him or steal his thunder. He’s daddy. I’m Greggy, aka G, and that’s all I want to be. I learned a lot when my brother-in-law passed away, and no matter what, you can’t replace someone’s father. Good dads, bad dads, over-bearing pops, or wrapped around a littler finger. It doesn’t matter, there’s one dad. All I can do, and all I want to do is be a friend and hopefully a positive role model. That probably requires I say “fuck” a little less frequently. Shit. Do I hide my Tupac CDs? Do I have to give away Grand Theft Auto? Do I need a belt clip for my cell phone? When is the appropriate time to teach her how to play poker? I think I might be sick.

But we were talking last night, as we watched “Two And a Half Men,” and Jake was fielding calls from some girl. I asked her how kids did that these days, how do t hey get go through the agony of calling someone for the first time and having to deal with a parent that answers the phone, in a day and age where so many house holds don’t have a home phone. So we briefly talked about what age would be right to get her daughter her first cell phone.

Now, call me old fashion, but I can’t picture giving her one before she’s 16. It’s probably not old fashion, I’m sure it has to do with the fact that I couldn’t have a pager at 14, and if I couldn’t then she shouldn’t have the equivalent. That’s mature huh? But then it went from talking about cell phones, to wondering when boys would start calling and she’d start dating. I’m looking forward to that less than I’m looking forward to my next dentist appointment. And I can put off a dentist appointment like a procrastinating champion.

This is a great kid I’m talking and worrying about. She’s funny, sweet, super smart and ornery as hell. Boys are going to be interested, and I want them to be. I hope her generation has such good taste; I just don’t want her to be interested. She should spend her time reading, studying, learning karate, cheering for the Mets, making money in after school card games so she can pay for school when she goes to KU and sees them finally win a National Championship. Then she can become the General Manager for the Mets and get me a World Series Title. No pressure though. Or she can do whatever she wants, just as long as she waits to date. Nothing unreasonable, same deal I made with my nieces. No boys until she’s 35 or I’m dead, whichever happens last.