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 80% of my children are male. Locked in the minority, but never silenced or bullied, is my lone daughter. My girl.
I joke that had I known she would be our only girl I would have given her a very girly name like Elizabelliarella Gwenmarierose. She carries around a boys’ name in a home full of boys and I feel for her. She doesn’t know the joy of true sisterhood. We compensate by painting her room “Pinwheel Pink” and lining dolls on her hutch as if they were The Porcelein Guard, sworn to protect their Hello Kitty-pajama-clad mistress from the slow but steady invasion of Thomas the Tank Engine. And his friends.
The Chicago trip was perfect. It required her to keep up with the rigors of travel like a big kid at the same time it celebrated her young girlhood. Everything that happened in the periphery (including meeting Coach Ditka) was fun and welcome. Our focus remained on going to the American Girl Place, however. 
The first time went went, we left her doll (currently named Samantha, but it isn’t the Samantha you may know from American girl—Aidan just likes the name) back at the hotel. Samantha had jet lag. In a doll it manifests itself in the inability to keep blinky eyes open and droopy hair. Aidan wanted to surprise Samantha with a new dress to wear to the theater and dinner in the evening, so the nap worked out well.
American Girl Place is three stories of dolls, clothes, doll-clothes, girls, mothers, a few fathers, thousands and thousands of employees, a theater, a restaurant, coat check rooms, escalators, a doll salon, a doll hospital, a bookstore, a new line of “beauty” products for girls in the form of sweet smelling lotions, shampoos, and perfumes, and museum-styled educational displays with historical artifacts celebrating the stories of the original American Girl dolls. We admired Kaya’s Native American display, complete with authentic clothing, baskets, and tools. The sparse and humble depiction of Addy’s world as an escaped slave was in direct opposition to Samantha’s priviledged background and the world of comfort and luxury she enjoyed. The disparity wasn’t lost on Aidan.
 The disparity isn’t lost on me, either. American Girl dolls are undeniably expensive. In their defense they are very well made and not intended for girls under the age of eight (younger girls are steered toward Bitty Babies). The clothing is beautifully designed and sewn. The accompaning stories are exciting with solid, strong moral lessons. I picture Aidan treasuring Samantha her whole lifetime, especially now that so many special memories surround her history. I think her doll will be an heirloom someday, her value boosted by the dreaming, scheming, traveling, and tender care of Aidan.
It was busy. Chirping, happy, wide-eyed girls carried their beloved dolls and shopping bags while parents snapped pictures. We searched for special souvenirs for Aidan and a dress for Samantha. She chose a t-shirt featuring Coconut, a little white dog. She also got a necklace with a pink-saddled horse. The perfect dress was eventually found. We left to rest for a few hours before our big night…
We had been in Chicago for four hours when we met Mike Ditka.
Our hotel and his restaurant share a building. Aidan and I needed to recover from leaping on and off trains and pulling two suitcases around downtown Chicago. We were hungry. Mr. Ditka’s restaurant was very convenient.
Most of the patrons in the leather-splashed, sports-memorabilia encrusted interior were men in business suits. Aidan and I were seated in a corner booth, despite not wearing jaunty striped ties and Armani suits. All the tables were kept clean and warm by thick white tableclothes, candles, and flowers. A replica of Mr. Ditka’s Hall of Fame bust was in our line of view, along with various trophies. All were encased in glass with dim lighting. It is not a sports bar. It is more of a museum to his accomplishments which happens to have giant steak and french fry covered salads brought out of the back room occasionally.
I had the “Pittsburgh” Steak Salad—“sliced peppercorn crusted Angus sirlion over mixed greens, tomatoes, cheddar-jack cheese with Mike fries and ranch dressing.” It was massive and appropriate. I was in Chicago and steak + ranch dressing + french fries + salad all mixed together on a platter sounded like a tasty way to kick off the day. Aidan chose chicken strips off the children’s menu. They came with a cup of ketchup. She considered the ketchup for a moment.
“I think this year I am going to eat more ketchup and not as much ranch dressing.” She attacked the mounds of food on her plate like a left tackle attacks the guy on the other side of the line of scrimmage. If he’s good.
We toasted to our trip, planned our afternoon, and realized we would never clean our plates. An offer of a carry-out box was refused by explaining we were hotel guests and didn’t wish to store steak on the bedside table. The waiter, upon hearing this, said “you know, the coach is in the bar…” and walked away.
The coach? In the bar? The coach? All through lunch I had been explaining to Aidan who Mike Ditka is and what all the football stuff was about. When I told her that Mike Ditka himself was in da house, she squealed as if she was his biggest fan, ever, “Can we see him?”
Yes.
 We paid and strolled into the bar area. There he was, sitting with two other men who looked just as slick and important as him. Probably his attorneys. I approached him and he extended his hand and smiled when I told him how thrilled we were to meet him. We were from Denver. Then I realized Aidan was hanging back, being uncharacteristically shy. I waved my arm for her to come over. She nodded no. Oh well. Goodbye, Mike.
On our way to the door, I asked if she would like get her picture taken with Mr. Ditka—her daddy and Pop Pop (my dad) would be so amazed. That appealed to her sense of liking to amaze people, so she agreed. We went back into the bar. I asked Mr. Ditka if I could take a picture of him with my daughter and he said yes. I thanked him profusely and told him how jealous the men back home would be. He laughed. Goodbye again, Mike.
Once out on the sidewalk, we called hubby on my cell phone to tell him of our encounter. Then we called Pop Pop. Aidan talked first. She laughed, she glowed, she insisted it was true. I chatted with him for a few moments to confirm.
Now I post the promised proof and one of our best truly Chicago moments. Here you go, Pop Pop.
Where is the train to the city? 
Where do we buy tickets?
How do we buy tickets?
Oh, in this machine?
Just put in the $4.00? Here? Look at it suck up those dollars!
Now that we have tickets to ride, where do we go?
Through the turnstyle? Over there? Put the ticket in the slot? Like this? No?
Oh, like this.
Go down the stairs to the platform.
There are two trains and meaningless signs. Which train do we take?
The one on the left? I was thinking it was the other train, I am glad I asked.
Wow, the train is fast! I hope we don’t miss our transfer stop to the subway!
Watch the map, you’ll see it coming and have 2.5 seconds to get off with your luggage.
Dooropendoorslamshut, the urban version of a gator.
Now what? Do you see the sign to the Red Line? Up? Down? Oh, down, then up, then down. Then down. How deep are subway tunnels, anyway? Any crocodiles? Hee hee.
We are getting close. I think.
Oh, you are getting off at the same stop? We can follow you? Thank you!
Look, there is light. Climb toward the light, do you have your suitcase, do you need help?
It’s bright. Let me get the map out. What street is this? There’s a McDonald’s. No we can’t go there now.
Walk, walk, walk, whoops, hurry across the street, a Bentley dealership?
I see the hotel’s awning. Right there. Over there! It’s green, across the street. Right there. Straight ahead! It’s green and it is sticking out. See it? We are close! Hang in there. See it?
When we leave we’ll do it all again, but in reverse. It will be so much easier.
But not as much fun.
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