Now, I had a loving mother, or "smother" if you like the term - it was the 80s after all. And I had a stepfather who has been with me most of my life. Last year, as a gift to him and my grandfather, I legally assimilated his last name as my own. For me this was an honor both to have and give, and in some ways it serves to counteract that feeling of meaninglessness I had as a child.
You may ask, "If your stepfather was there and you are so close, how did you manage to feel this way?" The short answer is - my actual father.
What follows is not a rhetoric of blame, but a realization of a man working with deliberate intent to protect his lovely and innocent child from the hurt which he secretly endured as the lovely and innocent child of a blended family.
Today, after three amazing days with my precious daughter, I had to deliver her back to her mother and the daily routine of her custodial living. However, before her mother and I performed our artful dance of custody exchange at our agreed upon drop off point, my daughter looked into my eyes and asked me why I wasn't going to take her all the way to the end of the line.
She's endured a lot and she always has questions. What child wouldn't? As I gently explained, she began to well up, put her arms up like a toddler seeking comfort, and simply leaned forward knowing that I would catch her and hold her close while she cried on my shoulder. She is nearly eight.
The whole morning leading up to her departure had been filled with comments like, "Dad? Why are you so awesome?" or "Daddy? How come you're the Best Dad Ever?" I never know how to answer these questions, but they make me smile and sometimes laugh or revert to one of our inside jokes about karate. Another reason that I don't know how to answer is because I don't feel like the best Dad ever. I don't feel like an awesome Dad.
I could never say that to her, but deep inside I don't. In my heart, the Best Dad Ever is there every day protecting her from the Boogie Man, tucking her in at night, helping her with her homework, picking her up from school, taking her to work, correcting her spelling, brushing her hair, healing boo-boos and owies with magical kisses and Neosporin, defending her when she's scared, letting her fall down so she becomes unafraid, building up her confidence, making sure she knows how she is seen and how she deserves to be seen, and making sure that no matter what happens - whether she is being disciplined or scolded, whether she's happy or sad or he is - she knows that she is loved unconditionally and beyond measure. But I only get to do this 10 weeks a year. How could I possibly be the best? How could she possibly know?
So, there I am, with this beautiful little girl who has this amazing heart and she's weeping on my shoulder. She doesn't want to leave me, but she wants to go home to her little brother and her mother and stepfather and all the familiar things. What should the Best-Dad-Ever say to this little disquieted heart?
I caught her in the middle of that forward lean, raised her out of the window seat of our northbound train and hugged her heart to heart - all the while holding back my own tears. "I love you, Christina, with my whole heart" I whisper in her ear as she sobs. "Daddy, loves you."
We stayed like this for some few minutes until the engineer announced my impending stop. Then I returned her to her seat, made a gross booger joke, as only Dads can do, and I watched her try to hide her laughter. Waving to her mother standing frigid on the platform, I encouraged her and touched her soft trembling cheek with the entirety of my palm. Her eyes where still red and watery as the train stopped. I stood to leave. Her mother entered the train and I kissed her cheek, so that my daughter could see it, and pointed the way to my empty seat.
The day I became a father, I lost the feeling of being dispensable. I had purpose. The day my ex-wife left for the last time, dispensable reared its ugly head again. But surprisingly, I still had a purpose. I had someone to love and care for, and I have tried to do my very best to make sure that, no matter what, my child knows that she matters, she has a purpose, she is loved and that I approve of and accept her for who she is.
Maybe I only get to show her this 70 days per year, but what makes me write this is the joy I have in knowing that she knows these things. It has worked! I did something right! And she has a peace and a confidence about her in her childhood that I never did. It's a confidence that can only come from the love and acceptance of one's own natural parents. She may miss me when we part, but the value of our relationship endures the absence.
Now, don't get me wrong...I love my stepfather with all my heart. In fact, I only refer to him in this piece as "stepfather" so as to avoid confusion. Neither, however, do I hate my father. Unfortunately, I still don't really know him. I have tried to open that door, and there is a often a sense of anger, confusion, hurt and loss that resonates from within me because of it. My solace comes in knowing that my child will never feel this way because, in my heart, I simply will not allow it. I will make every moment, every conversation, every interaction one of significance and value.
And even though it's hard some days, when then house is empty and quiet, when her toys on the shelf begin collecting dust, when my skin starts to forget the warmth of her hugs and my nose cannot remember her smell - I pick up my head, stand up tall and I head out into the world doing what I can to prepare for those few precious moments to come. Because an amazing little girl has come to think that somehow this frightened, flawed, confused and lonely man is the Best Dad Ever! And I will never let her down.
I think it's the least a father can do.
