Visions of My Father

Written about a year ago, July 2, 2008, right after baby Mak joined our clan...

Father's Day is long passed, and I have no special occasion other than my raging hormones post birth, but I decided to write today on the visions I have had this week of my father.

I look back on the last three years of my life, and I'm struck that most of my blog writing occurred when I was hormonal or sleep-deprived dealt by the sleep patterns of a one-baby Sophia. Well, now I write from the inspired sleep deprivation brought on by a one-Mak, and I kind of like my place of introspection and reflection.

Since I've been occupied by Mak's care, Brian has had to take over most of Sophia's daily duties and has to orchestrate her daily ruitine. This, I know, has been challenging for him because his typical day involves leaving at 5:00am for work and returning at 5:30pm, missing most of the inticacies that define the bulk of Sophia's schedule. Yet, the glimpses I've gotten, standing from the hallway looking through the doorway to her room, or from the kitchen sink, peeking at them in the yard, have been windows to my three, or four, or six year-old existence. There is something about a daddy. The way you can pull the wool over their eyes and "convince" them enough that "something" is a normal part of your day that they'll fall for it and actually DO it, or the way that they spend extra time with you at nap time or in lunch preparation. There are always extra choices with a daddy - lunch menu items, or clothing choices - and they never, never comb your hair. I think if Mak was a little bigger, Brian might even try to squeak Sophia into some of his clothes, and she'd walk around in a spit-up-stained onesie and crotch-snap pants. However, and I don't digress, there is something magical, too.

It's found in the way that they lay down next to you to read to you at naptime, or in the way that they will actually run with you through the sprinkler, or push you on the swing for 45 minutes. The way that our driveway turns into a Van Gogh work of art, and although the drawings look like prehistoric cavemen drew them to depict their lives, they were actually penned from the hand of a daddy.

I have memories of my daddy. And, whether or not you had a good or bad daddy, there are things that only daddies can do or not do. There are memories you either have or don't have because your daddy did or didn't do them, and this is what I've found hidden in the midst of Brian's parenting: that our children's daddies can help heal hurts dealt by our own fathers. Hurts administered decades ago can be slowly melted away when we watch our own husbands extend patience to our children; losses can become gains when we see our children's daddies paint, or draw, or read to them. And, although my very own daddy did so much with me, and I always felt so loved by him, I find myself being re-parented by my own husband as I watch him with my daughter. I feel so loved by him through her, and I relish the moments I see her with him. I doubt she'll remember everything he did with the accuracy that I will, but I know that one day she'll see her own husband with her own child and she'll remember the love of her daddy and maybe a memory will creep up and she'll hear Brian's voice in her head singing to her at bedtime "Jesus Loves Me" and see him tiptoe out of her room and she'll smile because she'll know that at one, at two, at four, and at six, she was so loved and cherished by her daddy. She'll think of all the things he did with her and instead of her thinking that she was entitled to his attention, she'll realize that he gave it to her out of the overflow of the love he had in his heart for her.

At least for me, this is what I have been experiencing. And, I'm so thankful that this special, early time with Mak has brought on the chance for me to see Brian this way.