I suppose it’s bound to happen sometime. Children do grow up. You can’t stop nature.

Thinking back to when I met her (then just a potential mate’s daughter) I get a feeling of whimsical nostalgia. She was two, a few months away from turning three. She still had that wispy, spotty hair of a toddler. Though she was in advanced stages, she had a bizarre relationship with walking and talking.

The first time I met her was at Grandma’s house. The wife and I had been dating for a few weeks and, I suppose, my background check came through clean and I was given the go-ahead to come face to face with the kid. She looked at me strangely, perhaps a little suspiciously. Who’s this? What is he doing here? Why is he touching my stuff?

Though she could speak, she clammed up. She still regarded me with suspicion. I would pick up a toy and try to engage her in a game of some sort. The response was a look that I’m pretty sure we’ll give to aliens when they touch down on earth. “What they hell are you doing HERE?” Then we hit the magical common ground: Barnyard Bingo. Neither of us understood the rules, nor did we care. We laughed at the hearty “Sproing!” the game gave off when you selected a piece. We enjoyed playing using the animal pictures and just matching the colors.

And she laughed her ass off because I never won. I wish I could hide behind some sort of adult sacrifice that I let her win to build her confidence, but it would be a lie. To this day I still think she hustled me. Maybe she hid a game piece up her sleeve. I don’t know. Still, I have never won.

I further solidified my stature the first time she came over to my apartment with mom. We had come to an early decision that, while mom and I needed alone dating time, time with the little one was essential to finding out if the relationship would work. After all, I doubt mom would have moved forward at all if the kid couldn’t stand me. Luckily, we got along.

They’d come over every Saturday morning. Mom and I would sip coffee while playing with the toddler. Then we’d all decide on something to do for the day. You know, playgrounds, picnics, the zoo . . . the usual. Mom called me before they came over the first time to see if we had solidified any ideas. We hadn’t, of course. She said she would pack up some toys and be on over. I told her not to worry about the toys. She was dumbfounded.

They arrived and the little one decided that mom and I would get married. I had my own pile of stuffed animals for her to play with and shelves full of Disney movies. Not only that, but I had Green Eggs and Ham on the computer! I was a hero. I was the coolest person on Earth.

Mom was a little worried. But, I think she got over it. Though, sometimes when the girls leave, I wonder if I’m under surveillance. “Did you play Don’t Break The Ice while we were gone? Huh? DID YOU????” Answer: probably.

When we got married, it was me who insisted we subscribe to the Disney Channel. It’s my subscription to Disney Magazine. It was me who started the conspiracy with the little one to get a trip to Disney World (guess who won THAT one?). And, it’s me who has been banned from grocery shopping for bad behavior and conspiracy to throw rolls of toilet paper down aisle 9.

Now, though, I look at the daughter . . . I can’t even call her “the little one” anymore. I look at her and don’t see a child any more. She’s officially a “kid.” She plays outside with her friends. We can drop her off at parties and she doesn’t want us to stay. She has the vocabulary of a Rhodes scholar.

And I’m not cool any more.

It’s okay, I suppose. I still have all my toys to play with. Plus some new ones. And Baby Elvis is on the way. I still have time to corrupt him. But, the golden days with the daughter are coming to an end. Yesterday she made a parachute out of plastic, string and a Styrofoam cup. Next thing I know she’ll be sending the cat into geo-synchronous orbit. She even rolls her eyes at my jokes. She’s starting to assert her independence and is no longer following the stupidity of her stepfather blindly. Now she’s scolding me for it. “Gary, I’m not sure you should really put those action figures on the ceiling fan.”

I guess it should be expected. But it’s frightening when your pre-adolescent child exhibits more common sense than you do.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with her growth. I’m thrilled. I’m proud. It’s just . . . I feel left behind. I want to go running off down the block with her. I want to dig up rocks with her. But she has to do that with her friends now. She just doesn’t have as much time for me anymore. And she certainly doesn’t have patience for my silliness at times.

Oh well, it just gives me time to plan for the inquisition her first date. I probably only have ten more years to plan. I have to start stocking up on black socks and sandals.