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I took the family—my wife, my six-year-old baby girl and my two-year-old baby girl—to see the new live-action Moana.

We were sitting peacefully in the theater. The movie was playing. Everybody was quiet.

Then, right in the middle of that calm, cinematic ambiance, my six-year-old leaned forward from her seat and announced—with perfect clarity and a completely inappropriate volume:

I had no idea words from my own sweet baby girl could be that humbling.

It wasn’t even mean.

That made it worse.

She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She had simply gathered the available evidence, compared both subjects and presented her findings to the room.

Maui: muscles visible.

Daddy: muscles pending further investigation.

I’m not entirely sure how the rest of the movie turned out because my anxiety immediately took over.

My mind began running some type of sprint-marathon-relay-race combination that was louder than anything coming through the theater speakers.

To help you understand how my mind works, I have an inner voice named Danté—also known as Moody Blak.

Danté does not offer reassurance.

Danté began hollering:

See! I told you. The baby confirmed it. You are indeed fat.

All those compliments about you being strong were baby flattery.

She knows you don’t have muscles.

If Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson were here, she would listen to him before you.

Actually, she might ask him to be her new daddy.

Why have you been eating the babies’ fruit snacks?

That last one felt unnecessary.

Also accurate.

But unnecessary. Is it a crime to like fruit snacks?

I’m supposed to be the biggest, strongest and most capable man in my baby’s life.

I don’t want another man taking my spot.

Nobody is supposed to impress my baby more than me.

My baby—whom I call Pooh Bear—is too pretty, too intelligent, too amazing and too valuable for Dwayne Johnson or any other man to impress her more than her own father.

That’s right.

At some point during the movie, I stopped calling him The Rock.

He became Dwayne.

As I sat through this movie experience that cost me fifty-eleven dollars, I was no longer enjoying myself.

I started looking at Dwayne with envious eyes.

I’m a huge fan of his, but suddenly I found myself thinking:

He’s not THAT big.

He’s coo.

He’s aiiight, I guess.

If that’s what you like.

My face had quietly taken on an expression that said both:

“I am jealous.”

And:

“I am not impressed.”

Thankfully, the theater was dark.

Because I was sitting there, a grown man, silently hating on Maui while my daughters enjoyed a beautiful family film.

Pooh Bear used to look at me like Superman.

Not because I am Superman.

Because she believed I was.

But Pooh is logical. She is rational.

She looked at Maui.

Then she looked at me.

And somewhere inside her little developing mind, the numbers stopped adding up.

Everything she once believed I was the greatest at immediately transferred to The Rock.

She believed I was the strongest.

Now it’s The Rock.

She believed I was the fastest on a bike.

Now it’s The Rock.

She believed I could throw a football farther than anybody.

The Rock.

When monsters were under her bed, she came to Daddy.

Now apparently she can call Dwayne Johnson.

How can something so little and innocent have this much control over my confidence?

It isn’t fair.

This child cannot drive.

She cannot vote.

She still needs help opening certain snacks—the ones I don’t eat.

Yet with one sentence, she had me questioning my body, my athleticism, my authority and my entire place within the family hierarchy.

My thoughts were still racing like Brad Pitt and Damson Idris in F1 when suddenly my mind shifted directions.

Wait a minute.

I’m fluffy because of you, baby girl.

I am on call for you 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

My life is literally planned around you.

Daddy’s muscles would be bigger if you let him spend two uninterrupted hours in the gym like Dwayne.

Apologies to you, Mr. Johnson. This is my mind speaking, not me.

Daddy would be less fluffy if he could get more sleep.

But he can’t.

Because of you.

Daddy would prepare perfectly balanced, nutrient-dense meals every day if he weren’t busy making sure you had the healthiest food available—only for you to request chicken nuggets fifteen minutes later.

I wouldn’t even be eating the fruit snacks if you didn’t bring them into my house.

This is entrapment.

And it was at that moment, during this thousand-dollar family experience (when tf did the movies get so expensive?), that I placed my six-year-old daughter in a mental “timeout”.

Yes.

One hundred percent.

She remained seated next to me, completely unaware that disciplinary action had been taken.

I watched the rest of the movie with an annoyed frown.

Nobody noticed because, again, the theater was pitch-black.

The movie was amazing, by the way.

After the movie, Pooh Bear gave me a kiss and thanked me for taking her.

And just like that, the case was dismissed.

Mental timeout overturned on appeal.

Pooh Bear, you have entirely too much control over Daddy’s emotions.

At any given moment, you can make me feel proud, terrified, anxious, happy, appreciated, inadequate, annoyed and deeply loved.

Sometimes all within the same five-minute period.

I may not be Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

My muscles may currently require better lighting and a signed affidavit to verify.

But for you, I would fight Dwayne Johnson.

I would lose.

Badly.

But I would fight him.

Because your hugs, your kisses and your presence are the life source Daddy runs on.

You have the power to humble me, expose me, motivate me and heal me—sometimes with the exact same sentence.

That is fatherhood.

Especially fatherhood with daughters.

You spend years trying to make them feel safe, beautiful and powerful.

Meanwhile, they can destroy your entire self-image before the opening credits are finished.

If you are a father—especially a father of girls—I am here to offer you no sympathy.

I will simply say:

Maui is stronger than you.

I can see his muscles.

I cannot see yours.

Now hit the gym and impress your babies.

Thank you for the motivation, Pooh Bear.

Daddy is honored. 💯

—Moody Maestro

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