Hey little bird,
I've been remiss for a good long while since the last one, so let us do a quick timeline for frame of reference...
You're 2 years, 4 months old now. I'm working at Brick and Bourbon. It is a rainy November morning quite early, and the song that made me think to adopt again this idea is Poinciana, Live At The Pershing, Chicago, by Ahmad Jamal Trio.
Whatever this was supposed to be originally, it is this. A declarative assessment of my life with you, from my eyes. Firstly, I am in love with you, my little bird. It didn't need to be over two years for me to figure that one out. It has been hard though. Maybe these aren't the things parents should tell their children or maybe they are. You can decide for yourself how I have occurred to you from this.
Fear pangs my heart with bouts of love enduring and winning the fight. I struggle with success. I used to be carefree and easy about almost everything, and now I worry endlessly. I was at the grocery store with you, after a doctors visit and we waited for medicine, and I had $9 in my pocket. That's about all I had, in all. You looked at some cheap grocery store books on a rack while we waited, and you picked one out you really wanted. It was $5. I didn't get paid for 4 days. You held it in your hands. You picked out a snack. You held it tightly too.
We couldn't buy a ball on the way out, but you had a book and a snack and you're so happy, my little bird. You're so sweet and wonderful that when I assess my own life in the light I should see it I realize I don't care much, as long as I have your time as much as our time lets us.
So all dads go broke and worry a lot and work hard and feel sad but they're dads so that's the win.
You're the win, little bird. I'll be myself again only when I finally get to share it with you. On we go.
Monday, November 18, 2019
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
A Late Start
My Dearest Rosalie,
I am looking at you right now, looking back at me, bouncing in your suspended swing, and everyday I think about how wonderful it will be to speak to you about all the beautiful things this life will offer you.
This first letter is to tell you all about your beginning from my point of view as your father. I know that your mother writes to you, and perhaps by now she has told you about us and what we are, or rather aren't. Your beginning was the scariest, craziest thing I've ever heard in my life. I remember the early morning your mother called me in tears, telling me you had surfaced on the radar of this life, like a crack in the sky. I must admit, I was terrified, excited, and so very worried from that moment on. That night we talked very carefully about all the things that would happen, could happen, and will happen.
You see, your mother and I had only been together for about three months. Though we had dated before, and known each other much longer than that, we were taking things carefully and slowly, until you came along, that is. We both discussed that no matter what happened between us we would always be the best parents possible together for you. We moved into a house together, and prepared for you.
When you were born we both cried tears of joy to finally meet you. We used to lay in bed and play music for you and feel you moving around. We were overjoyed to see you in the light of the outer world.
Parenting is hard sometimes. You want to do everything in your power to make your child happy. Sometimes that means sacrificing your own happiness. You see, though I cared very much for you mother, I wasn't in love with her. I wanted to be, because we had made such a beautiful little person together, and because she is a very good woman, with fine qualities, a soft demeanor, and one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. We got along good enough, but love is a very fickle thing. It's hard to put into words, like most feelings. The moment you try to define something it changes into something else. Love is like that. Like water between your fingers that slips away when you lift up your hand. A little stays, but most of it runs back to where it came from. I do love your mother, and am happy that she is the other half of you, but I don't have that special kind of love that she needs, and that I need. She loved me, and still does, to a capacity, but we were not meant to be together forever. The only thing that we were absolutely meant to do was make you. We couldn't be more happy or grateful for that.
I told your mother one day, when you were about 5 months old, that I could no longer be with her. It was one of the hardest things to do. We were very sad, together about it, and apart. You see, I was distant and afraid of facing that truth for a good while before I even said it aloud. I was also foolish and dishonored your mother, because I kissed another woman. I regretted it, and felt shame for my actions. I was so removed from the love I didn't feel for your mother that I behaved in a way that good men don't. I am a good man, but I made a mistake that I am still to this day ashamed of.
We are still living together at the time I'm writing this to you. I am soon to move out, and live on my own. It will be harder to be a good parent to you, but I'm still going to see you everyday, or most everyday. We will still play and laugh and I will continually find new places and ways to tickle you, because your laugh melts my heart every single time.
I don't know how many of these letters I will write to you. Maybe everyday, or maybe just once in a while. The most important thing for you to know is that you can ask me anything, anytime. I will tell you always anything you want to know about your mom, yourself, or me. I love you so, so much, Rosalie.
I am looking at you right now, looking back at me, bouncing in your suspended swing, and everyday I think about how wonderful it will be to speak to you about all the beautiful things this life will offer you.
This first letter is to tell you all about your beginning from my point of view as your father. I know that your mother writes to you, and perhaps by now she has told you about us and what we are, or rather aren't. Your beginning was the scariest, craziest thing I've ever heard in my life. I remember the early morning your mother called me in tears, telling me you had surfaced on the radar of this life, like a crack in the sky. I must admit, I was terrified, excited, and so very worried from that moment on. That night we talked very carefully about all the things that would happen, could happen, and will happen.
You see, your mother and I had only been together for about three months. Though we had dated before, and known each other much longer than that, we were taking things carefully and slowly, until you came along, that is. We both discussed that no matter what happened between us we would always be the best parents possible together for you. We moved into a house together, and prepared for you.
When you were born we both cried tears of joy to finally meet you. We used to lay in bed and play music for you and feel you moving around. We were overjoyed to see you in the light of the outer world.
Parenting is hard sometimes. You want to do everything in your power to make your child happy. Sometimes that means sacrificing your own happiness. You see, though I cared very much for you mother, I wasn't in love with her. I wanted to be, because we had made such a beautiful little person together, and because she is a very good woman, with fine qualities, a soft demeanor, and one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. We got along good enough, but love is a very fickle thing. It's hard to put into words, like most feelings. The moment you try to define something it changes into something else. Love is like that. Like water between your fingers that slips away when you lift up your hand. A little stays, but most of it runs back to where it came from. I do love your mother, and am happy that she is the other half of you, but I don't have that special kind of love that she needs, and that I need. She loved me, and still does, to a capacity, but we were not meant to be together forever. The only thing that we were absolutely meant to do was make you. We couldn't be more happy or grateful for that.
I told your mother one day, when you were about 5 months old, that I could no longer be with her. It was one of the hardest things to do. We were very sad, together about it, and apart. You see, I was distant and afraid of facing that truth for a good while before I even said it aloud. I was also foolish and dishonored your mother, because I kissed another woman. I regretted it, and felt shame for my actions. I was so removed from the love I didn't feel for your mother that I behaved in a way that good men don't. I am a good man, but I made a mistake that I am still to this day ashamed of.
We are still living together at the time I'm writing this to you. I am soon to move out, and live on my own. It will be harder to be a good parent to you, but I'm still going to see you everyday, or most everyday. We will still play and laugh and I will continually find new places and ways to tickle you, because your laugh melts my heart every single time.
I don't know how many of these letters I will write to you. Maybe everyday, or maybe just once in a while. The most important thing for you to know is that you can ask me anything, anytime. I will tell you always anything you want to know about your mom, yourself, or me. I love you so, so much, Rosalie.
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