As a kid, my mouth was so pure that I blushed every time I heard Winnie the P–h’s last name. My lips were immaculate, raunch-free, pristine. That record has been broken all apart now. I just said … what I’d just said … to my baby girl, my little Firefly. And she heard it with both ears. And it broke her.
I’m sorry, little Firefly. I should have protected you from this. I’m your father. I should have done more to steer you away from everything that led you into this place. That was my job, and I didn’t do it right. But I will be here with you, Honey. Mom will be here, too. We will make it through this, and you will be incredible.
I heard once that parents worry about their kids as a safeguard, as a deterrent against the calamities that otherwise inevitably befall them. Those poor parents who blithely savor the everyday pleasure of their children without the stain of dread that it will all be gone in the next blink — those people won’t know what hits them when the reckoning arrives. I want to be prepared.
Another trampled morning. Another foul undressing of the scars parents carve into a child. What did they do to make her suck unbroken attention onto herself, and how does that wound ooze such caustic jealousy of our other kids? For her, attention-seeking is elemental. It’s reflexive. The whole thing is kind of nauseating. It’s pretty heartbreaking, actually, when I step back from it.
Or maybe it’s the perfume of softly aged potty, now permanently ineradicable from my youngest son’s bedroom. I peek in at night, while he’s sleeping like an innocent, angel Spinosaurus, and somehow that yuck turns heavenly sweet in my nostrils. Everyday lamenesses like this have a way of smacking me with baffling delight. The pleasure hits without warning, and there’s no use trying to figure out how.
Sharing the real-life struggles of parenthood; searching for an honest, open faith; and savoring joy wherever it might be found