Feeling Unworthy and Unqualified to Be a Dad

13 months.

For the past five months, while driving my son home each day, he has always dozed off to the sounds of Weezer or The Red Hot Chili Peppers. I have depended on him getting that nap every day. But over the last week, that has changed.

I think it’s because of a number of things. It’s now dark when I pick him up from KinderCare, so I imagine it makes it more difficult for him to fall asleep. Plus he’s transitioning into the toddler class now. He doesn’t want to drink formula anymore, just solid foods and water.

All these changes at once are surely effecting his psyche.

So now, on the drive home each day, he cries and screams as loud as he can. There is only one remedy.

In an act which is the equivalent to me standing on the tips of my toes, I reach back to his rear-facing car seat and use my pointer and middle fingers to lightly tap the top of his head and forehead. He instantly stops wailing; becoming silent.

After my entire arm begins falling asleep, I take my hand away to let the blood start flowing again. It typically takes about 8 seconds for him to realize what has happened and then he’s back to screaming.

I can’t help but laugh. I mean, it’s pretty hilarious that my son cries as hard as he can until I start tapping the top of his head again. It’s funny how something that stupid can solve the problem; and that it’s the only way to solve the problem.

Yes, it’s ridiculous. But it’s also pretty humbling.

Though I continually am aware of how unworthy and unqualified I am to give life to another human being and soul, and to raise him on top of that, it’s little things like this that begin to convince me otherwise.

Maybe in some capacity I actually am chosen to do this job. Even if I don’t believe in myself as a dad, God evidently does.

After all, just the presence of the tips of two of my fingers dancing along to the drum beat of whatever rock song is playing through the stereo speakers is all he needs.

Literally, that’s all he needs. Every once in a while he’ll reach up and grab onto my pinky, as to hold my hand, but only for a few seconds. Then he lets go.

I know him. That’s just our shared style of father and son bonding. If he’s going to hold someone’s hand, it’s going to be Mommy’s.

Apparently, I am helping him cope with being afraid of the dark by him feeling my constant movement, as to scare the ghosts and monsters away.

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