Monday was Bug's birthday. She turned five. I wanted to write something for/about her. In fact, I've tried a few times. Everything I've tried stinks.
I tried a couple of times to write about her coming to the Clinic to have lunch with me. It sounded like a book report. It had no voice. This isn't a mommy blog1 -- I can't publish something without voice. And so Bug is getting ignored on her birthday post, and instead I'm, once again, talking about my favorite subject: me.
And so I present my evidences of just how terrible a father I really am.
Evidence 1: It's always about me
Happy birthday, Bug. Anytime I try to write about you, I think the writing is bad, so I'm writing about me instead.
Why is it that I can evoke so well the feelings and anxiety around my last stay in the hospital (read back to this), but I can't evoke my feelings about you? What does it say about me that I can write effectively about doubt and fear, but not about love? Your daddy is broken. You should request a replacement.
Evidence 2: You're not ready for school
You're not. We'd be crazy to send you into kindergarten in your current state of preparedness. And you should pitch a fit if I don't get you the one thing you truly need to be ready for kindergarten: a proper lunch box. Hopefully, I'll get my act together before the Fall. There are probably a million other things I should be worrying about--but this is the only one that concerns me.
Evidence 3: You haven't learned to throw a baseball
What is wrong with me? What am I waiting for?
Evidence 4: I hate putting you to bed
I like it so much more when you fall asleep on the couch. Especially when you're leaning against my arm, or have put my arms around you. And it's even better when we've just finished a bowl of popcorn. Bedtime sucks.
I could come up with more, but I won't. I just hope that you understand that all week, the image that has played in my head over and over is the image of a half person running up and down crowded hospital hallways on her first ever visit to her Daddy's work. I keep seeing braids bouncing as you jumped over every single joint in the tile floor. I keep seeing doctors and nurses and patients slow their pace so they can watch this bouncing and giggling ball of excitement just a little bit longer.
I wish time would slow it's pace a little more (or a lot more) so that I could watch just a little bit longer.
Happy birthday, Bug.
1 I'm not trying to offend mommy bloggers, but let's face it; my interest in what your kids have done in the past week, month, year, or however long it takes you to feel guilty that you haven't been blogging is only a passing interest.
Ben, I apologize in advance for intruding in such a wonderful, thoughtful, sweet and loving post to your little Bug.
ReplyDeleteI'm in awe at your ability to express in writing the kind of love only a parent can feel.
I know I don't know you personally but you seem like a good father trying his very best. Bug is lucky to have you so is the rest of your little family.