It’s been square peg, round hole for most of my thirties when it comes to men.  The few romances that led to relationships were never the right fit.  Perhaps we settle for “close enough”, establishing a rhythm of making it work because we’ve only ever had to work hard at it before. 

Then I met him and his daughter, and the triangle shape seems to fit perfectly. 

Last week, I filled my readers in a little on his daughter, who I lovingly dubbed Shy Little Frog after a favorite tune of hers.  I’ve tried to come up with a pseudonym for him, and I haven’t landed on name that encompasses who he is to me yet.  I suppose, I’m figuring out exactly who that is. 

We share more of ourselves every day, and I keep waiting for the detail revealed that sends one of us running.  The older you are, the more baggage you accumulate.  The longer you’ve been single, the more neurotic you become about doing things a certain way.  The more dating disasters, the more disillusioned you become that anyone will ever really “fit” you at your age.

At least, that’s how it’s been for me.  Unable to take naps, I fiercely protect my sleep.  I start every morning with a cup of coffee before engaging with humans.  For my diet, I intermittent fast until four in the afternoon all week long.  I need regular exercise, or I get crabby.  I can’t be out late, or I won’t be able to unwind.  Rigid mindsets developed in a decade of living alone. 

My boss was out of town last week, so I had a lot of extra time.  I opted to fill it by focusing on helping my new boyfriend’s daughter establish healthy school day routines.  It would test the rigidity of the mindsets and crutches I’d clutched before I met them.

For the last week, I’ve been up before dawn so that I can be there to help get Shy Little Frog ready for school.  A few times, she’s been on the bus before I’ve remembered to make my coffee… I was able to nap for nearly two hours each time afterward.  It’s as though my sleep clock instantly adjusted for me.  I seem to get just enough winks for that day, and I’d rather be with them than sleeping anyway.

I’ve packed his lunch, made her breakfast, chopped fruits and veggies, and prepped dinner without feeling a hint of temptation or envy before four o’clock hits and I can eat, too. We both know she can walk home from the bus stop on the other side of the neighborhood, but we both like knowing I’ll be there when she exits that sliding, folding door just after three. 

When her math tutor reviewed her progress in their program last night, it was easy to see why she hates the subject. She’s in seventh grade, but she hasn’t mastered her multiplication and division tables.  She understands the analogy of building the foundation before putting up walls, and she realizes the importance of getting that foundation this year before they put up new walls next year. 

Her new routine is starting to work, and she’s yet to push back when I remind her what time it is and suggest we save the rest of the movie for the next night.  I suspect that much of what my parents did right in raising me was owed to stable, secure, predictable, and enjoyable routines.  The only true changes I’ve actualized in Shy Little Frog’s life were just throwbacks to my childhood. 

We were hopeful, driving home after tutoring to make the burgers for her dad to grill up for dinner, realizing that we could build that foundation together.  The kid is brilliant.  We’ve identified the missing piece in her scaffolding.  I am Joy Palma’s daughter, and I guarantee you I’ve got the resources to help her bridge her gaps and test at grade level by the end of this year. 

If I were teaching this September, I’d be making an evaluation goal for the hundred and twenty students in my care.  God created a space in my career timeline to make my goals around one little girl.  We’ll meet her math goals and so many others I believe for. 

I’m not filling any spaces that weren’t already vacant in Shy Little Frog’s life.  I’m not stepping on toes or proving myself.  On our first date altogether at Fort Monroe beach, she was walking on the boardwalk in Crocs while her dad and I, barefoot, toed along the cobbled railing ledge along the seawall.  There was a spot where a shell had broken out of the ledge.  What was left behind was this perfect, white void. 

We stopped and considered it.  The details of the fan-shaped shell were etched into the mortar beneath. To have even noticed this little missing shell among the billions of fragments melded together to make the foundation we walked on that day was unlikely.

“It’s such a pretty little void,” I said, “even though it’s just the absence of what was.”

He saw a deeper significance then.  I’d come to understand. 

Encouraged by both of them, I stole away to Fort Monroe beach to write songs on the ukulele once last week.  The hours have been filled with living the moments I’d dreamed, wrote, and prayed about all summer long walking that shoreline, jetty to jetty, just me and Summer Sarah singing songs and asking, in Jesus’ name, for the exact life I’m jumping out of bed before dawn for these days.

Late Friday night, there was a hiccup in our carefully curated childhood rehabilitation plan. The other shoe finally dropped and baby mama caused drama that brought cops to their family’s front door.  They were heading home to sort it out. I offered to take Shy Little Frog someplace to avoid witnessing it. 

She jumped out of his car and into mine, then directed me to an undisclosed location.  Just before ten, we pulled into a parking space in a nearly empty lot at Yorktown Beach.  With security relatively unconcerned with our current course, she coaxed me to jump over a railing.  I followed her up a hill, and there was the most breathtaking view.

It wasn’t my Fort Monroe beach at sunset.  It was the York River in the moonlight.  It wasn’t Summer Sarah.  It was this precious girl whose name means beautiful treasure.  It wasn’t my happy place.  I’d come to find out, she’d brought me to hers… and we made the first of what I hope will be many walks along her shore together. 

I’m falling for him in equal measure to his little girl.  If I blogged about him, you’d probably think it’s too good to be true, which is, of course, a logical fear.  I’ll tell you this: he thinks three is the strongest number, like how a triangle is the strongest shape in construction.  While I prefer four and the perfect square,  I immediately thought of the Trinity and saw his point further illustrated.

For now, I think that three is making us all stronger.  It was as if the three of us had a pretty little void we’d been searching to fill that was just the shape of us, and we’d searched .  They needed a wife and a mother.  I needed to be a wife and a mother.  I think this might be my family. 

In fact, I’m watching Shy Little Frog play with our dogs in the backyard as she joyfully waits for me to finish this post and go watch the sunset at another happy place.  Triangle peg, triangle hole.  We were as unlikely to find each other as stumble upon the void that shell left behind on the boardwalk. 

Forget all those rigid single life routines and the mindsets and crutches that came with them.  We won’t miss this sunset.  I’ll pick a photo or two and post after the colors fade.