my milk has a better tan than yours

My Milk Has a Better Tan Than Yours first appeared in the November issue of The Voice.

The day I married Gina I not only became a husband, but also a father. Annica was 7 years old. Up until the wedding day, Annica acted calm. When adults talked to her in their overly emphatic (condescending) voices, asking her about the big day, Annica coolly explained to them that she had already been a flower girl in three weddings.

Annicas will was solid iron, and anyone who opposed her was in for a battle. Tyson, Annicas kindergarten classmate, discovered this the hard way. Tyson and Annica sat next to each other in Mrs. Johnsons class. Tyson loved to get under Annicas skin. One day, after telling on Tyson for stealing her eraser, Annica became discouraged by Mrs. Johnsons lack of action. With her small white fingers wrapped tightly around a No. 2 pencil, Annica took matters into her own hand.

The office called it a stabbing.

Gina says she poked him.

The end result was a two-day suspension from school and a lot more respect for personal space from Tyson, who bore the small mark of Annicas wrath on the middle of his back. Shortly after this, I met Annica for the first time.

One of my earliest memories of Annica was when she hit me in the head with a rock. I looked up from tying my shoe to see a guilty-faced Annica offering, in her best Mark Twain colloquial, "I was just havin a little fun." Many more events like this one ensued, propelling Annica and me into a cold war. If we ate breakfast together, we raced to see who could finish his bowl of oatmeal first. If Annica beat me from my car to their apartment, she informed me that we were actually racing. Our relationship was like this up until Gina and I married.

Our wedding was small. No bridesmaids, best men or ring bearers. Just Pastor Wood, Gina, Annica and I standing in front of 30 or so guests in the mid-summer sun. Annica clung to her mothers side, her two front teeth dug into her bottom lip. For once she looked meek.

Before Gina and I dated, Annica used to daydream out loud about someday having a father around the house. When Gina told me this, I had a hard time believing her. Annica seemed indifferent toward me.

A month after the wedding, I took Annica to the park, hoping that sometime during all our playing we would magically bond as father and daughter. We played on the slide, monkey bars and teeter-totters before ending up on the swings. After swinging for a while, I decided to get off the swings the same way I had since the third grade. I jumped. Annica followed suit and landed face first in the gravel. "You shouldnt do such things in front of little kids!" Annica scolded. Despite my discouragement, we continued to go to the school to play. Our routine never changed we always started on the big toy and ended on the swings. We never had that one moment, but sometimes a famished Annica would ask for a piggyback ride home.

Six months into the marriage, Annica asked me if we could sit down and talk. She was biting her lip and avoiding eye contact. "I was wondering if I could call you Dad. You know like instead of calling you Beau, I would call you dad or daddy." I told her I would be honored.

Most mornings we eat oatmeal.

My dad ate oatmeal.

Thats what dads do.

Due to our excessive stomachaches, we no longer race when we eat.

With one hand, I squeeze the chocolate syrup into my milk. I pass the syrup to Annica. With two hands she squeezes about twice the amount of chocolate into her milk. On her first drink she makes sure milk touches her top lip, creating a chocolate milk mustache. She sets her glass across the table next to mine. "Daddy, my milk has a better tan than yours!"