To My Daughter on Your First Day of Kindergarten

There’s always been a connection between dads and their little girls and ours was cemented from the start. Barely five years ago, your mom called me at work from her doctor’s appointment. “The doctor broke my water,” she said casually. “Oh,” I said, apparently not realizing at the moment that the second addition to Team Wuori was coming that very afternoon.

They say that the second child sometimes gets the short end of the stick. Fewer photos. A little less wonderment at the things they do. A little more casual behavior on the part of the parents since we’ve “been there and done that” with the first. If that’s been the case, you’ve more than convinced us that we take you for granted at our own peril. Now, here we are, ready to send you off to kindergarten, to follow in your brother’s footsteps and to forge a new trail of your own.

You’ve been a bundle of energy and excitement since we first brought you home. Eager to learn. Eager to voice your opinion. Eager to sass your brother. Eager to prove me right when I tell people,“don’t mess with Kristen.” Eager to prove your strength.

You broke your arm on my watch when you were three, falling off the monkey bars as we enjoyed a fun afternoon of scampering about at our neighborhood playground. Never once during those six weeks in a tiny purple cast did you complain. Never once did you slow down, either. Strong.

You tackled the challenge of learning to ride a bike without training wheels and earned your stripes three months earlier than your brother had. Strong.

You saw Alex finish a somewhat perilous climb on a large log in the Rocky Mountain National Park. “C’mon, Kristen,” I said, “we need to keep moving.” “Daaaad,” you replied with both a stern word and focused look, “I wanna climb on that too.” And so you did. Strong.

You park yourself regularly in the corner of your room with a pile of books, “reading” out loud and telling me, when I’ve asked what you’re doing, that you are “growing my giant brain.” Strong.

You fired up your little legs and pushed through the heat to finish the State Street Mile just a few months past your fifth birthday. Strong.

I wrote once on this very blog that what the world needed was more strong women. Women like Paula Newby-Fraser. Susan Collins. Dara Torres. Indra Nooyi. Annie Leibovitz. Sally Ride. Joycelyn Elders. Your namesake Kristen Daly. Hillary Clinton. Christiane Amanpour. Your mom.

These are women who have achieved greatness in sports, in the arts, in medicine, in science, in politics, in business, in journalism. Women who aren’t afraid of challenges. Women who didn’t start out with fancy titles. Women who sacrifice because they want to leave the world a better place than they found it. Women who work hard and get stuff done. Women who bring it and earn it. Women who find something inside of themselves that few have. Women with passion and energy and drive and enthusiasm. Women who say, “Go ahead. You can push me. I will do this and there’s nothing you can do to me to keep me from my goals.” Women who are strong.

Like all fathers, I revel in what you are and I dream of what you will become. I take my responsibility seriously to show you the world; to teach you right from wrong; to impart upon you the importance of helping others; to help you face your fears and overcome them; to teach you to push yourself when you want to quit; to grow your brain and never stop learning; to help you become. . . strong.

A few months ago you asked me, rather casually, "Daddy, do you get to keep your name when you are a grown-up? Will I still be Kristen?"

"Of course," I answered, "you will always be Kristen."

And, in my head, I thought, “you’ll always be my little girl, no matter where you are or what you are doing.”

Good luck in kindergarten and beyond, my strong little Kristen, you’re gonna do great.