Fatherhood is hard!
Wait, no it isn’t: I’m literally drafting this missive while quaffing a beer in downtown San Francisco (the Mission actually), waiting for the kid to finish up a class.
*Thinks back*
Wait. maybe fatherhood is hard?
So, “What the hell am I even talking about,” you ask?
Here’s an example. It starts with car seats. Car seats are a nightmare! They especially were for one of the kids. I’d plop her in the car seat and she’d start to scream. She hated it! She’d continue to scream until we reached our destination. So, ok, that was hard.
Here’s the thing though. In the middle of that we moved to a city with phenomenal public transit, and I quit driving. After that, I just had to hop on the bus with the kid in a wrap. She loved it! I loved it!
Except… Some bus rides are forty-five minutes long. And, sometimes? Sometimes the kid wanted to be bounced through the entire ride.
That was hard.
But other times? On the same ride. The kid abided. The kid snuggled into her wrap up against my chest so warmly, snugly, and secure.
And the kid snoozed.
And sometimes, I did too.
Also? The kid grew. And, as she grew, she would sit on her own in a bus seat. Then—slowly but surely—she could climb onto the bus on her own, following her sibs. That was incredible to watch.
But then? Some people thought she needed to be lifted onto the bus, and so they did. And she’d howl with the anger of a hundred banshees. Mourning. The idignity. The personal violation. The lost opportunity to do what her sibs could do; to follow in their footsteps.
And that hurt. That was hard. Not because she screamed at people. I was with her. How dare they! It hurt to watch her mourn a lost opportunity no matter how little it may have seemed to others. Each and every time she climbed on that bus was the stuff of legends to her.
Now!? Now, the kid rides the bus on her own with her sibs. And that kinda rocks, but I know I’m gonna miss the cuddles, the adventures, and the snoozing, and so it goes.
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