“Daddy, this is so much fun,” my daughter, Clementine, said, breathing heavily as we climbed the 49 steps to the top of the water slide.

Yes. I counted them. Mind your business.

Midway through the summer, my wife, Jenni, and I discussed keeping the kids home from daycare before school started. 

The prospect of saving money by not having them in daycare was more than enough to get me interested.

If you don’t have kids or don’t live in, well, the United States of America, you may be wondering, what does it cost each week to have a five—and eight-year-old attend daycare in the summer?

$484.19.

I know that number by heart, and writing it still takes my breath away. 

Jenni’s primary concern, however, had little to do with our money.

“I just think it’s a great opportunity for you to spend time with the kids since you might not have free time like this again.”

I guess staring at a blank screen, hoping for inspiration to strike, counts as free time these days…

We decided to give the kids some extra fun in the last week of summer before school. 

Cha-ching.

“It’s a good opportunity to adjust our bedtime so we are in a better routine when school actually starts,” I suggested to my wife one evening while feeling incredibly confident about my parenting ability.

Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.

On the recommendation of my eight-year-old son, Jude, I decided we would go to Summerland Family Fun Park. He had been there on a summer field trip, and he assured me Clementine would love it. The park has a waterslide, go-karts, mini-golf, and bumper boats, all run by teenagers who, for the most part, seemed unconcerned with park rules. 

You’ve seen it before. It’s the place where you say, “Maybe next time,” to your kids when you drive by it on the highway. 

A quick Google search showed me that admission to the park was $7.50, so I figured it’d be perfect for the hottest day in August.

Once inside, it was clear the admission fee was a bait-and-switch – everything was a la carte.

I stood looking at the prices for all the activities, attempting to do the quick math, when my wife’s voice popped into my head like a guardian angel.

“You’re not in a rush,” her angelic voice rang in my head. 

I must’ve blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was tapping my credit card to pay $148.89. Not bad for three hours of fun, right? Right?! But it’s not just the price. Every tap of the card feels like a trade-off, a decision about where to invest these fleeting moments. Before they’re too old to want to go on water slides with me, time with my kids makes a hundred and fifty bucks feel insignificant. 

We walked into the park, $335.30 in the black, and found a table for our things. 

Whenever I take my kids to fun places alone, I can’t shake the feeling people think I’m a divorced Dad.Sonaturally, I am forced to overcompensate.

“Mommy is going to be so proud of me when we get home to her,” I said in a raised voice to my kids as I slathered them with sunscreen. 

It’s funny how our insecurities come out to play sometimes.

Putting sunscreen on kids at the bottom of a waterslide is like trying to keep two cats in a bathtub. I wanted to ensure I was with Clementine before she got near the water since she is a new swimmer and because, well, she’s my baby girl who needs me by her side.

“Do you want to go down together for the first time?” I asked her as we climbed the steps to the top of the slide.

“No, thanks,” she said, running ahead of me up the stairs, utterly sure of herself.

Since Jude was first in line, I told him to wait for Clementine at the bottom to ensure she got to the pool’s stairs okay. 

When the lifeguard gave her the all-clear, Clementine looked at me. She wasn’t asking for permission – just checking on me.

“All good?” I asked with a smile.

She gave me her trademark thumbs-up and wink before launching herself down the waterslide.  My heart swelled with pride at her bravery. 

I waited at the top, watching her shoot out of the bottom. Of course, she made it to the stairs like she’d done it a thousand times before.

I stepped up and went down the slide to catch up with her.

If you haven’t been on a waterslide lately, do it. I promise you can’t make it down without smiling or feeling that burst of joy in your chest. 

As I came around the final corner of the water slide, my adorable baby girl sat in the water on the pool steps, waiting for me. Her face lit up with a smile from ear to ear, and a faint pang of recognition hit me square in the chest. 

My daughter looked familiar, but not just because she carries half of my DNA. It was different, like when a stranger’s face catches your eye at a crowded event, and for a second, they seem like someone you know. However, after you let your gaze hold for a moment, the recognition slips through your fingertips like trying to remember a dream.

We went down that slide a hundred more times, and every trip up the stairs, she couldn’t stop talking about the fun:

“Daddy, this is so much fun.”

“This is the best waterslide ever.”

“You’re the best Daddy.”

“This is the best waterslide ever.”

“I love going down the waterslide with you.” 

“Who built this waterslide? Because they did a really good job.”

With every burst of joy she shared, I felt that familiar pang in my chest again, like something I was on the verge of understanding. I shook it off as an odd case of Deja Vu. 

As we left the park, hot and exhausted, I silently thanked Jenni. She was right. Those three hours at the park riding waterslides, playing mini golf, and riding go-karts were reason enough to keep them home for the week. 

A few days later, walking from our tailgate at the first Minnesota Gophers football game of the season, soaked from the rain, I snapped some candid shots of Clementine, expecting her usual cute smile in her Gopher cheerleader outfit. 

Instead, I got a runway model attitude and strut, which made her look ten years older. 

There’s that pang again, I thought as I snapped pictures. 

When the photoshoot concluded, I looked at the pictures, hoping for a clue as to what had brought that odd feeling of familiarity, but I came up with nothing. 

On her first day of Kindergarten, her joy was infectious. It reminded me of how I used to feel on the first day of school – that Christmas morning vibe full of unknowns and endless possibilities.

From the moment she came downstairs in her orange-patterned dress (Get it? Because her name is Clementine), the pang in my chest lingered until we watched her walk into school.

If reincarnation were my thing, I’d swear that pang meant I knew her in another life.

Of course, I spent my morning crying as I worried about her being lonely, or homesick, or scared, or nervous, or, or, or… 

When she got off the bus, I realized all my tears and worries were for nothing. The pang in my chest returned as she smiled and waved, but this time, it felt more real. Less like a fleeting dream, more like a name you can’t quite get off the tip of your tongue.

On her second day of Kindergarten, we were a little more rushed to get out in time for the bus.

Jenni and I followed our children, backpacks bouncing on their shoulders, out into the cool September morning air to wait for the bus. 

We expected the kids to stop and wait with us on the step, just like the first day. The third grader, Jude, didn’t want to do that, so he gestured for his little sister to follow him to the bus stop. He didn’t do it impatiently; he did it with the calm confidence of the stellar big brother he’s been for the past five and a half years.

Tears start to sting my eyes.

Clementine didn’t think twice. She walked right past as I said, “Alright, have a great second day of Kindergarten, baby girl.”

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Jenni said, looking at me with mock anguish.

And just like that, I understood the pang – like solving a riddle, it suddenly seemed so obvious. The feeling of familiarity was no longer a mystery.

The source of that familiarity stood right next to me as we watched our kids walk to the bus stop.

My daughter’s smile, enthusiasm, confidence, and bravery are the same things I fell in love with when I was fifteen. 

Tears fell as I saw Jenni’s reflection in our daughter. But unlike her first day, only a few tears fell this time, I knew there was nothing to worry about. She got the good stuff from my wife—the magic. 

The magic of a little girl who knows there are no limits to what she can do – not because she’s told, but because her mother shows her how to be undeniable.

Her answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” says it all.

“A firefighter, construction worker, dancer, swimmer, and fashion model.” 

She’ll be busy, but I have no doubt she’ll do it all.

You shouldn’t either.

Cheers.

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