Dad's Eye View

I hate lawyers. I hate them more than you do, I promise.

You hate lawyers because you know stories of the bad ones. You hate their egos that come across as the size of the billboards they post their smug face on. You hate them because they are greedy and mere ambulance chasers.

Take all that hate you have for that profession and I promise you I match it. I surpass you, however, because I know the good ones too. The good lawyers who are even greater humans. I see how succesful kindness and empathy can be. I know lawyers who would give you the shirt off their back from their third house on 30a that you would never know has enough money for their grandkids to retire today. I know the ones who give everything they have to those who have nothing, those who maybe deserve nothing. I know the Harvard grad who ignored the guaranteed 7 figure career course to fight for injustice. No billboard, no glory, no stupid Instagram- good lawyers, greater people. You see, I have contrast. Seeing the good only makes you hate the bad so much more. Contrast can amplify hate, but it can aslo amplify a lot of other emotions… and I am ashamed to admit that.

I suddenly parent in a world of distinct, undeniable contrast. How does she feel? She, by definition and the majority, is the contrast. We travel in packs without her little brother and she stands alone. For some reason the two together tell a more complete story in the heads of strangers, I’d imagine. Alone, what is she? A friend, an adopted daughter, a foster kid? Like I said when I started this thing, she will have to answer that in her own story.

But who am I? That’s my job to answer. Well, today I am ashamed. Ashamed to feel nervous or judged by the failures of others that must be inevitably heaved my way by the liberal moms of the donut shop. They don’t say shit but I see their eyes. Liberals love to eat their own. I am sure they are chomping at the bit to quote Ibram Kendi as I order three donuts for the kids and a black iced coffee for myself (because after my last post I actually stepped on the scale and 285 was way too fucking generous).

Of course, this is all made up. I don’t know them and they probably aren’t looking at me. People rarely are. The contrast is real but I am sure it is nothing like it is in my head.

Yet (and I’ll be honest in this post and all my others)… I get nervous when you say “Dad.” You chose this name in under 60 seconds. I gave you three options, none of which remotely hinted at “father.” You denied my offering for an offering of your own. You named me “Dada.” My biological kids cannot even say that they had that right. We forced “Dada/Dad/Daddy” upon them. You chose it from a dictionary that only you can read and slapped it on my chest like a name tag at a church potluck. I was “Dad” and that’s what I was going to be.

You’re five years old. You can’t possibly mean it how it sounds. Because baby girl, it sounds so sweet. It sounds like “Baba O’Riley” playing in Athens on a Saturday, it sounds like the waterfall just around the corner from a long kayak on Lake Appalachia, it sounds like the sound of the metal chain at the park we played at in high school when the basketball goes right through it. It’s so pure.

You’re five years old. You can’t possibly mean it how it feels. Because my little queen, it feels so good. It feels like the cold air blowing out of the dash in a Georgia July, like the dog’s velvty ears as he nuzzles up against me on the couch, like your Uncle J’s hug because he is almost big enough to hug your big ass “dad.” It’s so warm.

You can’t possibly know this. It’s just a word.

So where is the shame? The shame is in me. When you say it to me and “the others” hear. I am ashamed that I want to explain myself. I am ashamed that I want to tell them, “She chose this. I didn’t force her.” I am ashamed when people find out it’s been three weeks and then hear that sweet name ring in your southern accent. My insides shrink like I did something wrong.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. But if you do, the shame is in me. The shame is me trying to explain how I know I don’t deserve that title, how I swear I did not brainwash you, how you could call me whatever you want and I would love you the same. Becasue I would.

I am so proud of the name you chose to give me. I am so sorry that I cannot let it be on the inside. I promise you this, I will work on me but you promise me one thing, if you can…never stop calling me “Dad.”