The other day my youngest child said something that I can’t get out of my mind.
I was putting her to bed, we were having our normal nightly conversation: reviewing the school day, the schedule for the week, homework, the usual. And then, she sort of quietly said, “Sometimes I look at you, and I just can’t believe you’re my father.”
I said, “What do you mean by that? Do you mean that in a good way?”
I was hopeful she meant, I just CAN’T BE-LIEVE you’re my father! I’m the luckiest girl in the world!!
She said, “Not really.”
This is when things because a bit uncomfortable.
“Do you mean it in a bad way?” I asked.
Like, I can’t believe YOU’RE my father because there are so many better choices out there.
No. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.
I pressed, “Well, then exactly what DID you mean?”
Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. She stammered a bit.
My mind was zipping around like Tinkerbell:
I can’t believe you’re my FATHER – you don’t have the maturity to handle this job. You’re only qualified to be my brother.
I can’t believe you’re MY father – we have so little in common. I had to have been adopted.
She tried to pacify me. “Dad, just don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s hard to explain.”
I eventually dropped it and put her to bed.
Yesterday I told DJ about our conversation. Her response? “Yeah. I sort of feel the same way.”