THIS IS THE FIRST FICTION I’VE EVER POSTED. IT’S NOMINALLY A CHILDREN’S STORY. BUT IT’S REALLY FOR MOMS AND DADS WATCHING THEIR KIDS GROW UP. I KNOW HOW THEY FEEL. ,,,

Not Very Meaningful

Every year, for her birthday, Daisy’s dad bought her a book.  A perfect book.  At least her dad thought so.  An uplifting book to boost Daisy’s self-esteem.  A gracious book about kindness and empathy.  An inspiring book that showed girls could do anything.

Daisy loved her dad.  But she hated his books.

On her sixth birthday he gave her a book about a dancer.  “It’s too meaningful” said Daisy, the instant she saw the cover. “You haven’t read it yet,” said her father.  “I can tell,” said Daisy.  She was right.  The cover had serious colours, a half-smiling child and shadowy light.  It practically screamed – MEANINGFUL BOOK!  It was.  It told the story of a very sick girl who spent months in a hospital, recovered, and became a world-famous dancer.

Seven-year-old Daisy did not want to read about strength, self-confidence or compassion.  She craved books with dog poo fiascos, fiendish brothers vomiting on birthday cakes, and pus-filled blisters that threatened to destroy the world.

On her eighth birthday, Daisy’s dad bought her a book about grandparents.  Daisy’s own grandparents were alive, but one grandfather had a disease with a long unpronounceable name.  Daisy’s dad used rainbow coloured wrapping paper and a big red bow to make her present appear especially enticing.

Daisy ripped it open.  “It’s too meaningful,” said Daisy.  “You haven’t read it yet,” said her father.  “I can tell from the cover,” said Daisy.  “Look,’ she pointed.  “That old lady has a tear in her eye.”  Daisy’s dad shrugged.  The book did look very meaningful.  Still, he pleaded, “try it.  You may love it.”  “Does the grandma fart?” asked Daisy.  “Everyone farts,” replied her dad.  Daisy laughed.  “I mean in the book.  Does the grandma fart in the book?”  Daisy’s dad sighed.  “No, the grandma does not fart in the book.”  “Too meaningful,” said Daisy.  “Real grandmas fart.”  But she hugged her dad anyway.  “I love you daddy” she said.  Daisy’s dad kissed the top of her head.  

Now, Daisy was just weeks away from turning nine.  She had a crush on a boy.  Her mom let her dye her hair red. She knew she was growing up.  Her dad knew it too.  

He also knew she needed books that made her laugh.  Books where funny things happened to silly kids with names like Arlo or Fudgie.  Daisy loved a book where a boy sucked a bandage off his face with a vacuum cleaner, and another one where a kid ate fried worms.  

The truth was sometimes Daisy got sad.  Or scared.  Scared of bugs and dogs, school and strangers, darkness and death.  Sometimes Daisy felt alone, ignored, or even picked on.  Books with exploding Easter eggs, ginormous geese, and squishy snot made her laugh and smile.  They made her not sad.  

As Daisy’s ninth birthday approached her dad never gave up hope that the perfect meaningful book existed. Somewhere.  He spent an entire day in the big city near the small town where they lived visiting every bookstore.  Fancy bookstores, used bookstores, small bookstores, massive bookstores.  He discovered a million books with smart, brave heroines.  Many of the authors were famous women who epitomized poise, self-assurance, and success.  

Every book had a serious cover and an inspiring title.  Daisy’s dad flipped through them all.  No one accidently ate a peanut butter and garlic sandwich.  Pet dogs weren’t painted pink.  Great big piles of petrified pelican puke were non-existent.  Daisy’s dad failed to find the perfect book.  

One week before Daisy’s ninth birthday her grandfather died.  He lived many miles away.  Daisy didn’t know him well.  But she knew her grandfather was her dad’s dad.

The night before Daisy turned nine, she found her dad alone and quiet in his favourite chair in a mostly dark room looking at a black and white photo album she’d never seen before.  She hugged him. She cried. “I miss Grandpa.  I loved him.”  

Daisy’s dad did not want to cry in front of his daughter.  He held it inside. He thought that showed strength.  “I loved him too.”  Daisy’s dad hugged her tight.  “It’s okay to be sad.”  He hugged her even harder, until she said, “you’re too tight.”  He relaxed and she laughed and wriggled free.  Daisy’s dad poked her belly as if she was a baby again.  “What are you looking forward to the most tomorrow?  Your party?  Mom’s famous cake?  A bazillion presents?”  

“My meaningful book,” said Daisy.

Daisy’s dad flinched. “I thought you hated my books.”

“I do.  And I love them.  It’s a tradition.  You always buy me a meaningful book.”  

“I always do,” said her dad.  Except this year.

After she’d gone to bed, Daisy’s dad did not sleep.  Instead, he barricaded himself in his office with the old photo album and his laptop.  He hunched over his computer and the printer on his desk churned out stacks of paper all night long.

An hour before Daisy woke up on the morning of her ninth birthday, her father completed the first book he’d ever written in his life.

After Daisy’s birthday party ended, and her friends had left, Daisy opened presents from her parents.  She squealed with excitement, like a toddler, at the sight of a doll – a green witch – from a movie she’d just seen.  She danced around the room after getting a gift card for her favourite gaming website.

Her father handed her the last present.  Hard and soft, rectangular, and hefty, it could only be a book.  Daisy did not rip it open, squeal, or dance.  Instead, she peeled the tape away and, before she lifted the wrapping paper said, “I know it’s a meaningful book dad.”  

Daisy’s dad didn’t know how to answer.  He put his arm around Daisy’s mom, as Daisy opened her gift, in silence.  “Hold it up,” said her mom, phone in hand, capturing every moment of Daisy’s ninth birthday in pictures.

Daisy lifted the book for the camera.  A camera that captured a not-so little girl, holding a homemade book; a book whose cover featured a picture of Daisy’s grandfather taken nine years earlier cradling a newborn baby.  Daisy’s grandfather had a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye, and, thanks to the magic of computers, a gigantic green fart cloud detonating from his butt.    

Daisy, shocked, yelled out the title, “A Not Very Meaningful Book.”

Daisy’s dad turned before she saw him cry.  

Which meant Daisy’s dad didn’t hear her whisper, “best book ever.”