UNSPOILED AND INDEPENDENT

Dear Spike:

My office is just across the street from the downtown sports arena, which means awful traffic on NBA game days, a yearly parade of elephants and clowns when the circus comes to town, and then, yesterday...

... an army of princeses.

It took me a while to understand exactly what was happening. I was walking to my car when I saw two young girls in tiaras. Then, as I rounded the corner, there were two more — these ones sporting tiaras and brightly colored ballroom dresses.

That's when I looked around and realized that I was completely surrounded by little girls in pink, yellow and blue gowns, prancing merrily toward the arena gates with their parents in tow.

Finally, it struck me...

Disney on Ice.

I mentioned this to a friend today, and I guess I must have had a bit of a scowl on my face.

"Oh, you just wait — that'll be your daughter soon enough."

I doubt it.

I've got nothing against Disney, really. Your mother and I have a pretty sweet collection of Disney movies, in fact — everything from 1937's Snow White to 2007's Ratatouille. I grew up watching Disney's Rescue Rangers and Duck Tales in the afternoons after school. And Disneyland may really, truly, genuinely be the happiest place on Earth.

So why would I put my foot down on Princesses on Ice? Call it intuition.

Playing princess is one thing. I hope we do. I'd like to pretend to be your Prince Charming and help you slay a dragon or two. Or maybe you and your mother could be a crime-fighting princess duo — like Cagney and Lacey, but with ball gowns.

But given that my paramount duty is to help you grow up to be a strong, unspoiled and independent woman, I guess I'm just not sold on the idea of letting the whole princess thing go too far.

Thing is, I'm still trying to figure out how to know what, exactly, is "too far" — so for now I'm sticking to a simple rule:

Princesses on Ice?

Probably not.

Nobel Laureates on Ice?

I'll get us front row seats.

Love,
dad

NOTHING MORE BEAUTIFUL

Dear Spike:

I keep looking for you — for the future you — in the young girls I see about town. In the little ones, jumping double-dutch at your mother’s school. In the teenage ones, shopping near my office downtown. In the college ones, listening to their I-pods as they ride the TRAX trains up to the University.

And I worry. Lots.

Girls at every age appear to have one thing in common: A desire not to seem intelligent, independent or enlightened.

•••

This afternoon, as I carried you back to the car after a lunch date with your mom, I happened to overhear two young girls talking. They were eight. Maybe nine. One had on a gray sweatshirt. The other was wearing braces. That’s all I can remember about how they looked. But I can remember their conversation. I can remember it word for word.

Sweatshirt: “Why didn’t you just answer the question?”
Braces: “Why should I have?”
Sweatshirt: “‘Cause you’re smart. That’s why she called on you.”
Braces: “I’m not smart. Why you have to say that about me?”

“Wow,” I thought. “Smart as an insult?”

•••

Your Aunt Kelly told me once that she thought she scared off boys because she refused to pretend she was dumber than they were. “Most guys want to believe they’re smarter than the chicks that they’re dating — especially when they’re not,” she said.

Small wonder that all the sex icons seem to always be dumb girls. Today it’s Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson. When you get a bit older it will be some other skeleton-framed peroxide blonde whose bra size eclipses her I.Q.

And against all the encouragement you’ll get to act dumb — from friends, movies, music and potential dates — I don’t suppose there’s much I can say to convince you that you should never, ever do that.

Not for a boy. Not for a girl. Not for all the marbles in the whole wide world.

•••

Forgive me a sappy love story. It won’t take long.

It was an early spring evening. Your mother was standing in the kitchen of the apartment I shared with two friends (one of whom she had just recently begun dating.) She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. Her hair was pulled back away from her face. Her eyes, I noticed, were two different colors.

She was then, and remains to this day, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But that’s not what made me fall for her.

My roommate, her date, was running late. So we started talking. About classes. About art. About movies. About food.

She was thoughtful and well spoken. She was graceful and poised. And when she disagreed with something I said, she told me so.

She was exotically intelligent.

•••

OK, the honest truth? Sometimes I am intimidated by your mother’s brains. Living with her is a daily reminder that I am not the smartest person in the world. Living with her is a daily reminder that I am not even the smartest person in our home.

But still, there’s nothing more beautiful in the world than an intelligent, independent and enlightened woman.

Nothing except, perhaps, an intelligent, independent and enlightened daughter?

I pray that one day I’ll know for sure.

Love,
dad