Posts Tagged ‘ sad ’

I Want You To Go Back To Being A Daddy

Tuesday, January 28th, 2014

3 years, 2 months.

Dear Jack,

During the holidays last month, there was a day where I had to work, but you and Mommy were home.

I didn’t realize it until here recently, but I found these pictures that Mommy took of you wearing my hat and slippers. You had proclaimed to Mommy:

“I’m being Daddy!”

Deep thought: In your eyes, what does it mean to “be Daddy”?

It happened again yesterday afternoon, as we had just finished watching Brother Bear 2 on Netflix. In the movie, the main character, a girl named Nita, chooses to turn into a bear.

As you played trains on the carpet with Mommy, I asked you if you wanted me to turn into a bear. Out of curiosity, you said yes.

In the likeness of Brother Bear 2, I stood up, sort of twirling in slow motion through the air, and when I crouched back down, I pretended to be a roaring bear.

Almost immediately, you stopped me:

Go back to being a daddy!”

So with another slow motion twirl in the air, I turned back into “a daddy.”

But what does in mean, in your eyes, to be a Daddy? And more importantly, to be your Daddy?

For me, it was one of those moments in time where I got accidental confirmation that I must be doing something right, as your parent.

Whatever it means to you that I’m your Daddy, it’s a thing you want and need.

This reminds me of a quote from one of my favorite movies, Garden State:

“It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.”

Last night as I wrapped you up in your snowman blanket, singing you “Yellow Submarine,” I heard the mix of nostalgic sadness and happiness in the song.

I imagined what that must be like on your end. I remember. I do…

There’s this deep sentimental connection between a parent and a child about your age; a certain connection I still remember having with my parents in the early 1980s.

You’re in it, right now. You’re in it.

I’m not saying that feeling goes away, but I recognize it as particularly special during those preschool years, when lullabies and stuffed animals are part of everyday life.

It feels like… home. It’s both happy and sad.

The reason it’s sad is because it’s so happy and, deep down, you know it won’t last forever.

You know that the two of you will both grow up and eventually become both be adults.

But as for right now, you get to be the cute little boy, ironically wearing Daddy’s hat and slippers.


Love, Daddy


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The Thought Of You Not Being Here Anymore

Saturday, June 15th, 2013

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

This week after uploading the most recent content from my digital camera to my flash drive, then editing those files, then deleting all those pictures and videos on the camera immediately afterwards, I experienced a dose of panic and anxiety I haven’t known since maybe 7th grade.

I could not find the video of you riding your fire truck you made of pillows!

Mommy and I were so proud of your performance, yet it was nowhere to be found.

How would I tell Mommy what I did? Should I just not bring it up until she asked about it?

I always feared this happening; deleting one of your pictures or videos before actually saving it.

After searching for 20 minutes in a state of constricted breathing and a gnarly adrenaline rush, I realized that the thumbnail for the video was not the one I was looking for.

In other words, I had not deleted your prized fire fighter performance. And of course, now it’s safely saved and featured on YouTube.

I don’t know, maybe that video clip isn’t really all that funny or cute to the whole world, but to Mommy and me, it’s priceless.

To think had I actually deleted that file, the very best thing I could have done was try to get you to re-create what you did in the video that day, but I could never actually access the original again.

Subconsciously, my mind started to process the thought of actually losing you; not simply just that video of you.

My subconscious, I’m convinced, is much more aware of deep emotional hurt and sadness than the conscious part of my brain. The door of that room inside my head was unlocked and I began to catch a glimpse of hell.

I began feeling this heaviness and emptiness that I couldn’t even begin to understand.

In that moment, I felt so alone and lost and exiled.

It felt like I lost you.

I never want to feel that way again.





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