At the age of 36, after a life lived hard and recklessly I became a father. I was there in the delivery room and held her when she was born. I was awed and humbled. And as much as my heart was filled love, elation and absolute adoration, I was scared, overwhelmed and suddenly aware that I had not one damn clue what I was doing.
I remember looking at my hands in the delivery room and thinking ‘These are the hands of a boy. These are not the strong hands of a man. A father’
For the most part I was right. But I try. I try hard.
In the ensuing four years since then I’ve lost my own father, the relationship with my daughter’s mother came apart and I ended up estranged from most everyone and everything I knew except for my child who I share with her mother.
In many ways this is good, in others it’s hard. I’ve been through breakdowns, break ups and sudden curves since. I have sought out God, people with wisdom and to try to walk the line. It’s not been easy. Or made much sense. But it’s the only thing I can do. I am a daddy now and I have a purpose, reason and privilege that says I got to do whatever I can no matter what.
Because someday I want my girl to think of me and think ‘Maybe he didn’t always do the right thing, but I know, no matter what, he tried his best, I cannot doubt that at all.’
Maybe someday she can read the words I write and understand better. Maybe you can understand better. Maybe the words will just make sense.