Manual Focus

Funny, this post was started well over a decade ago...thank you for safeguarding my thoughts, cloud robot...

This might have been left unpublished because it illuminates the very tender connection I’ve had with Annie ever since we met for the first time…but reading some powerfully beautiful stories a good friend recently shared about their parenting experiences—including the fight to find joy in the face of heartbreaking tragedy—made me take stock of the miracle of my own, and I thought that if something I shared might make even the smallest difference in someone else’s day or outlook or relationship, then I really don’t have anything to lose. So, here we go…again.

(Circa 2012) 

Parenting is a unique adventure.  The journey is uncharted (or vaguely charted, at best), and, from an experimental point of view, highly unrepeatable because the subjects are so vastly different in temperament and in response to the same type of input.  I know what is going to happen every time I heat water on the stove.  I know what is going to happen with a similar level of certainty when I plant seeds in the ground.  I even have a pretty good idea what is going to happen every time I leave my dirty socks on the bedroom floor...(I should add here that this type of experiment is dangerous and should not be repeated.  I should also add that I really need to take my own advice).  Boiling water, bean sprouts and loose laundry give me hope that there is some order to the universe.  This is essential after having been a parent of small children, especially when a little girl comes along after two…ummm…typically unique boys. 

Cooper, a boy who enjoys play and loves art, writing and research is a stark contrast to his little brother Aaron, who lives for the outdoors and any type of sport or activity that takes him there (Update: ten years has changed practically nothing with these two). 

And then, she came along...

She walks on sunshine and each breath is a song...I've spent weeks of nights on the floor next to her bed, having fallen asleep during the process of settling her in after an exasperating day. She has been my source of hope when I'm a flailing and bewildered mess of a parent.  When she was three or four, on an especially overwhelming day, bedtime was a direct order, and not the usual invitation to giggle and read and sing.  After an abruptly abbreviated send-off, I stopped just outside her door, just to catch my breath. In that nano-moment of my own silence, I heard her soft sniffle.  I just about missed it. I know her well enough that it wasn't just a ploy—a Hail Mary play for my attention—it was a genuine expression of heartache. I could almost hear her train of thought, "Daddy is mad. Is he mad at me? I hope he'll be happy again."  It was as though our thoughts had connected through the air, and I found myself unable to move any further down the hallway.  Turning back into her room, I knelt down by her bed, and as she threw her arms around my neck, she tearfully whispered “It’s okay Daddy, we’re getting there.” We just stayed there like that for a while until, inspired by her reassurance, I started to sing.  It wasn't a song we’d ever heard before...it was just for her. And me.  

In the years since, on more than one occasion, we have sensed the need in each other to hear it again.  Without ever writing down a single word, she sings it to me or I sing it to her and it is peace...it means I'm sorry or I know you're being a jerk but I love you anyway. I love you. And you love me..so let's just hug and cry and get over it.

After a long night,
After a long day,
I wonder to myself, am I doin okay?
After a long day,
After a long night,
I ask myself will I ever get it right?
And just when my hope starts to fade away
You wrap your arms around me and you say:
It's okay, Daddy, we're getting there,
Someday, Daddy, we'll make it there,
It's okay, Daddy, I love you...today.

And that, my friends, is all you really need.