My daughter is beautiful.

This is not bloated dad-talk. She is, by every objective standard of judgment, a gorgeous kid.

On the flight back from Guatemala, where she was adopted, a flight attendant begged to hold the then-8-month-old, then paraded the child up and down the cabin. People gawked and smiled.

It’s been that way ever since. Just the other day, during trick-or-treating, neighbors seemed to be giving her extra candy, based on her looks.

This is a problem.

How do you teach a child not to rely on pretty face when she already knows – by the constant acclamation of others – how lovely she is? It’s not that she’s conceited. Far from it. But it’s not hard, even for a youngster, to understand the power that beauty conveys in our culture.

When I speak with her, I emphasize her smarts, her math skills, her kind heart, her memory (stunningly accurate), and her other attributes. I will tell her that she looks nice, but only after she’s cleaned and dressed herself (to impart important daddy lessons of hygiene and self-reliance).

For many parents, a child’s looks are a reflection of them. But an adoptive dad cannot take credit for his daughter’s room-lighting smile. Two attractive Central Americans made my baby the way she is.

There is, of course, a practical part of me that knows that beautiful people get ahead in life – better pay, more frequent promotions, deferential treatment, etc. How could a father not want those things for his kid?

Well, because he doesn’t want a vain woman to sprout from the pretty girl. Let her work for her success, let her fight like the rest of us.

Then she’ll be accomplished. And lovely.

I signed the Little Girl up for an adult art class centered on aspects of the Mexican Day of the Dead, which is Wednesday.  It’s close enough to her heritage, and I wanted to start teaching her about her ancestral Mayans.

She painted three sugar skulls – egg whites and sugar mixed and hardened into skull molds – without fear or squeamishness. In her mind, she thought of loved ones who died, people and animals. Even at 7, my baby has ghosts.

She was the only child in the class of seven women. They were kind and solicitous, and praised her efforts. This was a good day, and helped provide depth to Halloween.

Now she knows it’s not just about costumes and candy, although, to be honest, she’d tell you that it certainly is mostly about that. We’ll take baby steps on the integration of cultural knowledge into her life.

It’s hard for an Italian from Brooklyn to impart someone else’s history. But that’s part of the job, right?

As reported by BlackEnterprise.com, Michelle Obama has been offering parenting tips lately.

I spoke with her once in an interview about feeding good food to kids. I even had the chance to mention the Little Girl and her eating habits, which pleased my daughter no end at the time.

I wish we’d had more time to speak, because the woman seems to be raising (with the help of her husband and her mother) two lovely, shining girls. Anyone doing that well must have usable wisdom to impart.

What struck me about the BlackEnterprise piece was Mrs. Obama’s statement about parental appearance:

“I want my girls to see the model of a mother taking care of herself, because, quite frankly, my mother didn’t do that. My mother was the traditional stay-at-home mom who never went to the hairdresser…and the thought of spending a dime on herself was just like, “’Oh, my goodness, why would I want to do that?’”

Much of my money goes toward buying clothes for my daughter, not myself. As a result, I sport a wardrobe that is mostly older than my daughter. Also, lots of the clothes come from Costco, known more for its large, Armageddon-ready jars of mayo than for fashion-forward duds. I’m pretty certain the Little Girl doesn’t think her dad is a sartorial dandy.

The bad news: As much as I try being a decent dad, I might be falling down as a role model here.

And -- I couldn’t swear to it -- but I don’t think the First Lady was all that impressed with my clothes, either.

Halloween approaches and once more I’m guilty of going full-Disney: buying my daughter a wildly expensive costume from the folks who seem to shape what kids look like and think nowadays.

So much of what my daughter watches -- and a sizable portion of her toy chest and her wardrobe -- come from the ubiquitous Wal-Mart of children’s dreams and diversions. It’s seeped into her brain, too, where she fantasizes about pixies and princesses, and wonders whether she’ll meet a prince some day.

There’s no shortage of writing about Disney’s huge influence on kids. And, let’s face it, the company has me in its thrall as well, since I willingly buy into the corporate plan for taking over American childhood.

Having said all that, however, please allow me this: When the Little Girl tried on her glittery Princess Tiana gown the other day, she seemed transformed. She walked taller, smiled more, seemed happier. Then we added the shoes, the tiara, the clip-on earrings, and the necklace.

“I look like a princess,” she said quietly to her reflection in the mirror, when she didn’t think I could hear.

I should stop this? I should say no to this?

Sure, a homemade costume has more integrity and displays greater creativity. And next year, maybe we’ll go that way.

But my daughter feels like a princess in these clothes, the same princess she saw in the movies. I’m going to let her feel that way for as long as she wants. What’s the harm?

Life has its way of dethroning all the little princes and princesses, anyway. On Halloween night, why shouldn’t I bow before her, and invite her to trick or treat with me, able footman that I am, trembling in her majesty’s glowing presence?

The Little Girl is imparting wisdom on bullying, laying out the latest pedagogy on how to handle kids who pester, push, and terrify. I listen, fascinated.

Her school is taking great pains to let children know how to deal with such situations, and I am grateful.

Of course, I realize that my personal solutions to such problems are wildly out of step. And, obviously, I didn’t have to deal with on-line bullying and the particularly knotty issues that entails.

Still, at the risk of sounding like a rickety ancient, what I can say is that in my day, you met force with force, and smacked down a bully before he could gain too much power.

If I were to advise my daughter that way, of course, she’d find herself in as much trouble as the instigator. Educators call for restraint and intelligence in such matters. I marvel at the thinking.

But I can’t help believing that, in the state of nature that the schoolyard can become, only the fittest survive.

Good thing, then, that I’m not in the schoolyard. And good thing that I’m withholding my own advice on bullying, and allowing the school to take the lead.

For now.

Being a parent means steer-wrestling with the unexpected.

Being a joint-custodial parent sometimes demands that you do that same wrestling wearing a blindfold.

This is to say that stuff happens in the other house that has repercussions in yours. And a daddy is suddenly called on to deal with something he never saw coming.

For example: My darling daughter receives a just punishment from the other household for failing to do something she was asked to do. Part of the punishment is that the Little Girl is not allowed to speak on the phone until she gets a certain chore done.

I get a communiqué from said household, asking me to honor this. It’s a reasonable request. But what it means is if the kid calls, I’ve got to remind her that she’s not allowed on the phone. And I’ll have to end the conversation before it begins.

I’ve been known to drop anything and anyone to take a call from my kid during non-custodial times. I thirst for her voice, and I constantly think of dumb questions to ask her just to keep her talking. It would be extraordinarily difficult for me to tell my kid we can’t speak, should she call.

So now I’m praying she doesn’t, just to avoid having to cut her off.

This is how life gets?

There is no way anyone could foresee stuff like this. But it happens all the time for joint custodians.

Watch out for the steers. And welcome to the rodeo.

The Little Girl got sick the other day, so I stayed home from work and dispensed orange juice and love.

She sighed, she snuggled, she unclenched. The kid went boneless in my arms, lying against me like she did as a baby, with her head in my neck and her soft breathing easily audible. I was in heaven.

Of course, if past patterns hold up, I might also soon be in the emergency room.

My kid gets a slight cold, I develop pneumonia. It’s happened five times in the last seven years. I’d never been hospitalized before I adopted my girl. Now it’s nearly a yearly thing.

This makes for a problem. When I notice her getting sick, my first thought is, poor baby. But very soon after, it’s poor me, oh, Lord, not 103 fever and coughing up blood again.

What a selfish cur I am. I hear my child sneeze and I start to worry about my own health. It seems nasty for a parent to think that way, but it’s become automatic.

I don’t mean to be a cretin. This is just the dynamic that’s developed. I’m no less a dad when she’s sick. It’s not like I turn her away when she wants to cuddle.

But in my head, I’m thinking about germ transference, and how my now-scarred lungs are going to use the latest crud as an excuse to fill with fluid and lay me low.

Such is the joy of parenting. It took my cousin years to develop immunity to his daughter’s illnesses. I’ll have no choice but to hang in there.

And there are benefits, I suppose. In a little while, the Little Girl will be old enough to pour her old man some orange juice. Can’t wait.

Science is now telling us that fathers raising children have lower rates of heart attacks and heart disease.

As if I needed another excuse, my love for my daughter now deepens.

The news doesn’t jibe, however, with everything everyone has ever told me about raising girls – namely, that they’ll drive you to an early grave.

The stuff you have to worry about – pouty entitlement, slammed-door interactions, and boys, boys, boys – sounds grave enough to me.

What I find fascinating is how people with grown kids seem to take delight in telling me things like, “Wait till she’s 15. The stress will make your organs explode.”

Folks who impart such warnings, of course, seem to want me to experience that pain. They’re like plebes who survived hazing at military school, and can’t wait to spread the anguish: We went through it, so why shouldn’t you?

I’m guessing I’ve got my share of heartache ahead. But I like knowing that the love of a sweet child can actually help a father’s heart, and extend his life.

That’s a good trade-off -- one I’d sign up for every day.

Cue “Ode to Joy.” Let the dancing begin. The Little Girl has said yes.

I’d been scrambling for school after-care and I found a spot I’d hoped she’d like.

She likes.

There was popcorn, dress-up time, and homework. The children were sweet, the adults who run the place were solicitous and patient.

People often say that at moments when knotty problems are resolved, they feel weight being lifted off them. I am tons lighter this morning because professional child-care workers have created a safe and stimulating environment that my picky daughter approves of.

Happiness and sorrow rest on such fickle things. If a care-taker had been cross, if a kid had been mean, the Little Girl’s review of the place might have been vastly different. And she’d never have given circumstances the chance to self-correct.

But there is joy and strutting today. Our little family won one. Single parents without margin for error learn to savor the positives.

Today, I’m smiling.