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Be with dispatch to my daughter - parenting


Dear Camille,

As I thumb by means of the photographs that I carry with me at all times in my briefcase, it's hard to figure out that the short haired, smiling baby property a crawfish and wiggling its claws has bowed into the attractive goldilocks girl that anxiety the stage and wants so much to sing.

I feel like such a cliché-all those expert parents effective us how cursorily you would grow up, how it would be over beforehand we know it, how we had best pay concentration ahead of it all ended.

They were right.

I can't have faith in you curved three.

I can't have faith in the seasons adjustment so fast, the questions adjustment so fast, all the same the answers seem so much alike.

I sit on airplanes and think of you often, what kind of stewardship do we offer, who truly teaches who, the empty affection that hovers about me like a crack of dawn mist when we spend too much time apart.

I contemplate the choices, the justifications, the self-centeredness that allows laziness to creep in, the host moments of ire that warrant only tenderness, the loss of be in command of over small matters of tedium, the fragile compare concerning patience, guidance and the human clause that reveals its dark self in petty outbursts, commands and even shouting matches-the announcement valve that plants ashes of hurt with hardly resolve.

What is my job?

Outside of guard from brute harm, I bob on this sea of life like a tiny cork in a hurricane, accomplishment within, seeking, annoying to clinch and express, wondering how I might ever become certified to tell you or any person how to live.

In the end, the old adage that the more we know the more we apprehend we don't know takes hold, anchors me to a journey of discovery and serves as a reminder that my problem evaporates if I focus on love, my role to baste you in it, wrap you up in a love cloud and cover you with a love blanket, that you may grow in love and let the other instruction flow to you and by means of you at your own pace.

This I can do, shrug off the coat of failure and give you a new hug, an added kiss, a different kind word, an added detailed when follow-up run short, a different chance, a further smile, an added deep breath to choke down the critic or the despot or the fictional expert that so cursorily jumps to conclusion and wants to intervene.

No, vicar doesn't know best.

Father struggles to understand.

Father wrestles with his most central job.

Father tries so hard to heed his own counsel, to listen-both to the words and the unspoken, the undercurrents, the needs, the emotions that rage, then play, then rage, then rest, then come back to rage again.

Father cares-though the cluttered blend of empowerment, co-dependency, heart, guilt, duty, honor, passion and profound, profound affection at times do more to baffle than enlighten.

I guess we all tread the path, rain or shine, coldness and summer, paved flat and mountainous, rocky trails.

Father loves.

Father loves you, with all my might, a job I relish.

As long as the ticker ticks, it will constantly tick for you.


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