Some days with your child aren’t particularly special. I comb through the events and think to myself, “nothing really happened”. I have to remind myself that this is solely from my perspective. To them, you are more than what you give credit yourself for. They don’t hear the voice in your head telling you, you aren’t enough.
In their eyes, you were more than the person who fed them and cleaned up their mess. The pillar that supported them as they crawled up the stairs. The person who read them a bedtime story about a reliant mother bunny. You took them on a stroll outside, and flung them on the swing at the park. You were the imaginary car seat so they were tall enough to spin the steering wheel. Like cardboard, they sat on you as they slid down the slide. No static shock because of your sacrifice.
They met friends because you met mothers. You helped them find the bootie they lost, they watched you pick up the mail. Played peek-a-boo and chase. Danced in circles to the music, while laughing. They got to rock-climb the dresser because you kept the drawers shut. And create waves in the tub without worrying about drowning spills. They stood and fell, scooted and bonked their head, but they were also always picked back up and reminded the world isn’t such a scary place so that they got to sleep just fine.
These all seem like such ordinary events. But I think back to my childhood. And sometimes, the best part of my days were being woken up at 6am and seeing my dad off to work at the train station because I knew if I didn’t, I wouldn’t see him at all. Of the thousand microevents that happened today, Casey probably thinks the best part was picking up mail. But at least, I was there.
As a parent, it seems like you throw pitches and hope one sticks. You make a million memories and hope one becomes a core one. You teach a thousand lessons and pray he hears a tail-end of one. But I have to remind myself that it’s the sum of all the parts. That every invisible bit of effort you place counts. I wouldn’t have wanted to go to the train station to see my dad off if it weren’t for the Barbie play dates, the Legos, the boardgames, the silly dance contests, the singing performances, and all else that made him a dad before I went to school.
And if one day, I can’t remember what exactly I did on those Mondays off with Casey, at least I have these case files to revisit. Proof that there was something more to boring old parenthood. And reasons why he could love you.