Being a parent is hard.  There is much that is given up to do it, but you do get a lot back, and I am not the first to observe this trade-off.  I was a good Dad today.  (As I write this, I have actually published last night’s post – but two posts back to back? Absurd!  Instead, I’ll have this posted at 8am – so the post is time-travelling to future, which is your present)

Listen:  Today I was a good dad.  The TV was barely on.  We went out.  We played.  Feeding was done, and so was burping, and hugs and such.  But there are many things I do I think are fairly stereotypical and I try hard not to do them.  When Zachary puts himself in danger I respond with anger far too often.

I think many parents do this.

It is the fear, you see.  On the backs of my eyelids, in my mind’s eye, I have seen Zachary leave me in ways I don’t care to elucidate here.  Lucy has imaginarily vanished from the car, or been dropped, or other things.  It is less stressful with her now, than with Zach – but there is still the fear in the back of my head of her sleeping habits.  It’s horrible.

But today went well.  Tomorrow… oh, tomorrow, you bring me phone calls to debt companies that I don’t want to think about.  The sheer irony of wanting to write for a living someday is that I only feel capable of writing when I’m comfortable, but I can’t get comfortable unless I try to write for a living.  It’s a long-shot dream, but one I will never let go of.  Look at this!  Eight Days and a bonus!  Yes, this evening will bring another post.

But the children like to take my writing time.  And I freely give it, because I have always believed there will never come a day when I say “boy, I wish I’d spent less time with my kids.”

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