From a Father to his Daughter

Dear Madeline,

When you were first born I was scared shitless.  I sat with you in the hospital room, alone, for an hour or more while they stitched your Mum up.  I wondered “What the hell have we done?”.

You were lying on my chest, very small, bundled in blankets.  You looked up and regarded me with huge, calm blue eyes that said “Don’t worry Daddy.  I know…”

It seems you did too, because over the next few months love for you grew inside me until it seemed to fill every available space.  That was totally unexpected.

I remember a life before you came along.  It had good bits in it for sure, but nothing can compare to the calming joy I have always felt just spending time with you, no matter what we happen to be doing. 

You barrel through my days like a little sunshine cannonball, warming everything you touch.

At night your snuffly breathing and small (but growing!) body curled in mine for warmth soothes fears and makes me smile as I sleep.

The things you give me may be intangible and hard to describe, but they are no less real for that.

But parenting seems to be a constant process of letting go – from the little things like dressing yourself or wiping your own bottom through to big things like letting you fight your own battles and find your own friends – so you can Become.

I am incredibly grateful this process takes place slowly, day by day.  If it had to happen all at once I don’t think I would be strong enough to do it.

We are on separate roads, you and I.  We must live our own lives.  This is right and good.  Our paths will meander along together – weaving toward and away from each other as we both find our way in the world.

But they will never be as close as they are now.  It may be right and good, but that does not mean it is easy.  The temptation to hold you close, protect you from everything and keep you with me forever is incredibly strong; but, like crushing a butterfly in your grip for fear it will fly away, would ultimately destroy the very thing I am seeking to preserve.

So, while we are here, in our quiet together space, let me tell you a secret…

Way down deep in my heart I have a room.  It is warm, cosy and dim.  It has a comfy old chair in it. 

The walls are lined with shelves and they all hold boxes, full of special, heartfelt memories.  I visit whenever I can to add new ones or just rummage through old ones, sitting happily in my comfy chair for hours sometimes.

One box looks like all the others (perhaps a little less dust), but I never visit without opening it at least once.  It is uniquely special, this old cardboard container.  Whenever I open the lid, what is inside spreads a magical, golden glow around the whole room.  It lights up my face and reflects in my eyes.  Why?

This is the place I store every memory I have of you.

The past is gone.  The only place it exists now is here in this box, and that makes it precious indeed.

Everything is in here.  Carrying you to the end of our street to watch the diggers before you could walk.  Dropping stones in the grate in the gutter.  Teaching you how to change batteries in your toys.  Bouncing on the trampoline.  Swinging you until we’re both dizzy.  Just little gems, but so lovely and so many!  I am a lucky man.

No matter how long our roads, and how far from each other they are at times, I will always, always have this small box of treasures tucked safely away – and that is a comfort as I go about the process of letting you live your life as the bouncy, gleeful, stubborn, kind, thoughtful, loving and fiercely independent young lady I know you to be.

One day (hopefully after a VERY long time) this old heart will cease to beat.  It happens to everyone and it is inevitable.  I don’t think it is fair but that is another story entirely.

Now, when those boxes fall away and the memories they contained float off into the ether – becoming no more than whispers to entertain spirits – your memories will burst forth with such a light my chest will glow, warm and gold.

Whoever is there – doctors, nurses, strangers – will wonder what is going on!  They will have no idea.

…but if they ever ask you, or I am lucky enough for you to be there holding my hand when it happens – you can just regard them with your huge, calm blue eyes and tell them

“Don’t worry, I know…”

All my love Sweetheart,

Daddy.

Daddy, please don't leave me...

"Daddy, please don't leave..."

They can be difficult words to hear sometimes - when your 4 year old is hanging from your leg like a pleading koala and you are running late for your train to work.  There's guilt and frustration mingled with a sprinkle of yearning...

Other times not so difficult - like at 3am last night after answering a call, pulling her doona up over her chilly body and doing the old 'hand on the back' routine until her breathing became slow and steady.  Thinking she was asleep I turned to walk out the door when a tiny, sleepy voice said those 4 little words.

Then, with time a-plenty, it was a pleasure to say "Sure, Sweetheart, I'll be right here." and climb in with her, snuggle up and doze for an hour or so while she slumbered contentedly in the crook of my arm. 

Another of those beautiful little gems I string on the thread of my life that make me happy to be a father.

My own father is dying.  He has been for some time, but has entered the final phases now.  He rarely eats more than soup and has wasted away to where I can circle my hand right around his arms and even legs (If I chose.  I choose not to.  That would be creepy.).

When we visit he just wants to hold your hand while you talk about the inanities of daily life.  He drifts in and out of the conversation, but never lets go.

When it is time to leave I can see in his eyes the words "Sonny, please don't leave...", but he never says it.  He just says "Goodbye Sonny.  Goodbye."

It's hard to go.  His nights are lonely.

I'm 50 years old, and as a grown-up I feel sad for my Dad, am confronted by mortality, feel for his suffering and can accept the only way past that suffering for him now is to die.  To move on to whatever it is we move on to.

But if I'm honest, inside me somewhere there is a little boy staring in dismay at the skeletal figure lying curled under a blanket and who sees there the shadow of his big, strong father; remembers his warm, work-thickened hands carrying him and who still feels the security of the big man's hug.

...and who can't help but plead in the darkness "Daddy, please don't leave..."

The Getting of Confidence

I’ve been getting fitter and healthier lately.  Having finally established eating and exercise routines with some consistency I am beginning to feel the results.

Energy, strength, that sort of thing.

And confidence, as self-belief begins to bleed back into my being.

That’s a problem.

As confidence creeps up on me, I start Wanting what I Want.  I am confronted by my life and my fledgling self-belief starts asking “Is this what you want?  What about this?  And this?  And this?”…

I have developed enough belief to express dissatisfaction with facets of my life, but not enough (yet) to know I can overcome them.

It is rather like stretching your leg after sitting on it for hours.  The tingling starts and you know you are in for some pain before the blood is flowing freely and your leg finally gets back into full operating order.

At least with a leg you know the pain is temporary and you know you want to use it again.

As I ask questions like “Do I want this job I have?  Am I satisfied in my relationship?  Can I do better?  What would I rather be doing?” I honestly have no idea what the answers will be, how long they will take to come and how much pain I will have to endure to get there.

The choice is to let my life stretch out and regain feeling, or squash it again until it is numb and I am safe from painful, disruptive change.  I wonder how many people cycle, as I have done over the years, through those tingly first tastes of self-confidence before letting fear squash them down and numb them again, round and round…

The squashing can be done in all sorts of ways.  Drugs, alcohol, overeating, addictions are all the obvious ones.  Others are more subtle; burying your own life under the lives of your family, for example.  That’s a good one, because you can actually be receiving praise (“Oh what a nice man!  Do anything for his family.”) while submerging your self, your dreams and your goals under a cosy, safe blanket of sacrifice…

They all achieve the same goal though – safely putting you back into a place where you feel you don’t deserve anything better, protecting you from all the pain of achieving transformation and success.

Sigh…

Something inside me knows that whatever I do or don’t deserve, I still WANT.  I want to be a stronger, more decisive, happier, more engaged, motivated, inspiring kinda character.  I want to go to bed each night feeling successful, loving and loved.  Looked up to.  Respected.

That something is stubborn and keeps driving me out of the numbness, no matter how many times I succumb.

Confidence.  Belief.  Pain.  Change.  They’re coming.  I can feel them.  Time to try something new.

“Persistence”…