Little Miss redux
Last night (she said…) was some night.
The outpouring of love and support from friends both new and old has been unreal. I mean, for crying out loud: my personal trainer sent me an IM to see how I was doing. I can’t express how grateful I am for all of you: for those who came out and drank with me and those that knew it was best to leave me be; for those who bought me coffee to help sober me up and those whose sage advice did just that; and for those who just said “we’re here”, through both their words and their silence.
Thank you - I love you all very, very much.
But what good is a drunken stupor unless you learn something from it? Sometimes, you learn that it’s not necessary to drink an entire bottle of Southern Comfort (because it’s not). And sometimes, you learn that even though it sounds like a fantastic idea, sending that email (or making that phone call) is really about the worst thing you could do.
And sometimes, the lessons come later like an inverse hangover.
Are you ready for it?
I am weak.
I couldn’t deal with seeing my Little Miss cry like that. It’s as simple as that. Maybe it’s because I see her Mom’s disappointment eyes when I let her down. Or her Mom’s rare tenderness when she holds me tight and won’t let go. Or maybe it’s just because I’m her Daddy and I’d rather lose the world than see my baby girl cry one more time.
Regardless, the fact is that I was weak. Rather than sit with the pain I chose anesthesia, and that’s bullshit. A father doesn’t run, and a father doesn’t shrink from a fight.
When my kids look at me, they don’t see a weak man that would rather drown his sorrows than face them. They see Superman. They see someone that can do anything.
“Daddy, can you fix this toy?”
“Daddy, do you know how to spell hippopotamus?”
“Daddy, what’s 1,000,000 plus 1,000,000?”
They see the very truth of me.
And I missed that mark last night. Waaaaay missed it. I’ve been missing it for a while and it took last night for me to see how far I’d strayed. See, because here’s more truth: I used to be a shitty father. When I realized I wouldn’t have them in the house for much longer, I cleaned up my act. My divorce has made me a better father, but the amazing thing is that my kids don’t see me any different. I tarnished their vision last night, even if they weren’t there to see it.
On the shittiest of days, I may not have the strength to turn down the drink on my own. But for my kids? I can do it. No sweat.



