For years, Daughter and I have driven to games and practices in four different sports, all year round. And over the years we’ve developed a few routines for our trips. Not all of them have made it this far, and some have changed a little. 

For example, we no longer listen to Ed Sheeran’s album +. These days, you’ll be more likely to hear Taylor Swift or any one of the One Direction guys in the car. 

But when we get to our destination, we always fist bump each other and I’ll tell her to go get ‘em. 

If I’m travelling and can’t get to the game, or if it’s an away game, I’ll text her the fist bump emoticon. 

The day Daughter was born was a cold one. We had been to the hospital once earlier, but were told that it had been a false alarm. Daughter wasn’t ready to meet the world yet. When we returned to the hospital a month later, it was way past her due date, so we both, but especially Wife, were more than ready. 

She was born at quarter to six on that cold March day. Since she was our second child, we knew a little better what to expect, which is why we had our special CD with special songs on it, to create the perfect mood. We were cool, calm, and collected, and since everything went well, and she was healthy and happy, I drove home later that night, and returned the next day to pick up my two girls. 

It was even colder the next day day as we walked out the hospital. It was windy so we had wrapped Daughter inside a fluffy white overall inside a blanket as I carried her in my arms, not lifting my feet on the icy ground on our way to the parking garage. 

I can still see her tiny face, with a little bit of cheeks and nose showing from underneath the blankets. And when I put her down on the car seat, I have a vivid memory of her raising her tiny fist for me to bump it. 

I may be imagining things. After all, it’s been seventeen years today. 

Anyway, it’s funny how certain parts of one’s personality never seem to change. She’s still often a little late, and likes to sleep in whenever she can. However, when awake, she’s always been an active child. She learned to crawl and walk at an early age. Well, maybe not as much “walk” as “run”. She’s always loved all kinds of games from football to darts to hockey to card games, and doing everything with a smile on her face.

I don’t think we have one photo of her in which she isn’t smiling. 

* * *

The other day, I dropped Daughter off at the hockey rink. We were late, things were chaotic, and she just grabbed her bag and took off. I sat inside the car, with my right hand extended out, my hand a fist. And sure enough, three steps in, Daughter stopped, turned around, opened the door and bumped my fist. 

“Go get ‘em,” I said. 

“Will do,” she said with a smile, slammed the car door shut and ran off. 

I couldn’t see her face, but she was probably smiling. 

I love pizza. I could eat piza every day. In fact, about a decade ago, we went on a road trip in Italy, and I did eat pizza every single day for two weeks. Well, every day but one. That day, I decided that I couldn’t eat pizza every day and that I should at least try the pasta – when in Rome – so I had pasta.

It was in Siena, in a restaurant by the Piazza del Campo.

I remember it vividly because when I saw Wife’s pizza, I regretted not having the same.

I’ll never make that mistake again.

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“Are you Finnish?” the man asked me, wasting no time with niceties.

Now, he asked the question with a smile on his face, but his tattooed knuckles told me I’d better answer him, and answer him truthfully.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“I could tell. Finnish genes are strong,” he said and raised his finger to indicate he was about to take a pause in the conversation.

We both did a set of bicep curls.

“I don’t know what it is, but there’s something very Finnish about you. My ex-wife was Finnish so I can tell,” he went on and wiped some sweat off his brow.

I did, too.

“Yeah, well, I don’t really know what it is, but sure, I’ve seen an image of the genetic map of Europe and we’re way out here when the rest of Europe is here,” I said, pointing holes in the air.

“Where in Finland are you from?” he asked me then.

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Son,

You know, Helsinki in November is not heaven on Earth. It’s dark most of the day and even when the sun is supposed to get up, you’d never know because you’ll never see it. It’s probably cold, too. And windy. It rains … unless it’s snowing, but these days, it’ll probably rain. Unless it rained yesterday and then it got cold overnight and the sidewalks turned into skating rinks.

Well, you’ve seen it.

And the worst part of it all is that before it gets better, things get worse. The days get even shorter and the weather even colder so that by the 22nd, with another month to go until the winter solstice, you’re just about ready to go into hibernation.

And yet, one of those late November days in Helsinki changed my life, made everything better, and brought sunshine into our life. Mine and Mom’s.

You were born. In the middle of the night, on this day, eighteen years ago.

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Earlier this week, Wife, Son and I sat on warm concrete on the sidelines of a soccer field in Gothenburg and ate lunch as we waited for our favorite player’s, Daughter’s game to begin. Her team was on a West Coast tour, with five games in four days. 

I loved it. 

Not because I’m one of those crazy soccer (hockey) Dads because I don’t think I am but because going to the sports field or hockey rink is my idea of having fun. 

I don’t know why I’m wired that way but it fascinates me. 

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