My 8-year-old daughter finished 2nd grade yesterday, and I couldn’t be more proud—or more sentimental about the whole thing.
As any parent will tell you, it goes by fast. Faster than you think. Faster than feels fair. These milestones arrive with celebration, but they carry something quieter underneath them too—a kind of soft grief. Not because anything is wrong, but because something is always passing.
And now, summer is here.
My job as a stay-at-home dad goes into overdrive this time of year, and honestly, I’m excited. We’ve got a lineup—museums, zoos, parks all over the city. A little structure, a little chaos. We’ll work in some learning too. A bit of math. Nothing too heavy.
And apparently, a long-overdue cultural education.
Because last week, Bugs Bunny popped up on the screen, and she had no idea who he was.
That one caught me off guard. Not because I’m worried about her memorizing her multiples of 8—we’ll get there—but because somehow, in eight years of parenting, I had failed to introduce her to the Warner Bros. universe. That felt like a miss.
So yes, this summer will include math. But it will also include Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and the rest of the crew. Some things matter.
About a week ago, though, something else settled in.
Mary Ann and I were talking about school ending, about how much we love our little lady, about how quickly all of this is moving. And somewhere in that conversation, I said something that felt true the moment it came out: the biggest flex we have as parents is that our 8½-year-old still loves to play with dolls.
That might sound small. It isn’t.
It feels like everywhere you look, kids are being pulled forward—faster, older, more polished. Like childhood is something to move through quickly, something to outgrow on the way to becoming something else.
But not her.
She wants to bring a baby doll to the park and push it on the swing. She builds little worlds and carries them with her. And maybe part of that magic sticks because of what she sees at home. I still have my own childhood Grover sitting in a place of honor. My meditation closet—half sanctuary, half archive—is filled with figures, toys, and artifacts from a life that never fully let go of play.
She sees that.
And whether consciously or not, I think she understands: this kind of wonder doesn’t have to disappear.
For her, imagination isn’t something she visits. It’s where she lives.
And the truth that sits just beneath all of it—the one you don’t say out loud very often—is this: I know that at any moment, that part of her childhood could be gone.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just quietly.
One day the dolls don’t come to the park anymore. One day they stay on the shelf. One day they’re just objects.
And that’s how it goes.
So I made a decision.
This summer—mentally, intentionally—I’m calling it The Summer of the Dolls. Which really just means I’m not going to say no. Not to playing, not to imagination, not to being invited into whatever world she’s building that day.
If she wants me to sit on the floor and be part of it, I’m in. If she wants me to push a doll on a swing in public, I’m in. If she wants to create some elaborate storyline that makes no sense and requires full commitment, I’m all the way in.
Because this isn’t really about dolls. It’s about presence.
There are a lot of things I can teach her this summer—math, cartoons, how to navigate the world just a little bit better. But this feels just as important: to meet her exactly where she is before she moves on without asking, and to say yes while yes is still being offered.
Because one day, without announcement or ceremony, it will be over.
And I don’t want to be the dad who realizes it too late—the one who was too busy, too tired, or too “grown up” to step into the world she was trying to share.
So this summer, we’re playing.