When you give your daughter the advice "Be open and allow yourself to be vulnerable" for writing a psychology essay, that essay may just turn out to be about you.
Or in this case, me.
My insides contracted when she told me she wrote an essay about me, abs tight, ready for the blow.
As I read, I relaxed. I have to say there was nothing in there that I did not expect to see. There was however one of my deepest fears.
My fear of how my children view me.
Turns out they, or at least she, see me mostly as depressed, or asleep.
My youngest daughter lay with head in my lap the other night while I mindlessly played with her hair. She is a remarkable child, and in a matter of weeks will be 14 year old. To me, she is my baby.
I brushed and twirled her hair and contemplated what it must be like for her having lost her father at such an early age. I was 12 when mine died and I at least have some first hand memories. My daughter has none, only anecdotes, photos and videos (that need to be transferred to the latest technology so she can watch them).
The daughter writing the essay was a few weeks shy of 10 years old when her father died. She has memories. Her memories, like mine are sepia toned, and filled with camping trips, vacations, and story times.
Her formative years after his death are what she writes about. The years I mentally checked out and was for the most part a zombie.
I wish I could implant in her brain that I was there, I was trying to smile, laugh and enjoy each and every moment.
As a family on a whole we went through some pretty hard times, I made mistakes. Small ones and huge ones. I own up to them now and have been for the last few years.
It has been a long time and I am now in love again. It is a different love, not just because I am in love with a woman. It is different because I am older, more cautious of my heart and we have a few more walls to break down.
It is different because I made her a mother to my children, a job she embraces and does with ease. It is different because I am not alone anymore.
Easter was last weekend and the table was sparse. One child in college, one who had to work, it was not the over crowded bustling action I am used to on holidays. Yet, at some point a few of us managed to annoy the other few by spontaneously bursting into "Day By Day" from Godspell.
My family will randomly juggle, dance, sing, do back tucks, make hilarious videos, claim photos steal their souls, argue, laugh, cook, show me a new tattoo or book they have read.
My older children will curl up in my bed to watch a movie with me, or invite me to bingo.
We have struggled, maybe more than some and less than others. I have stayed.
If I could write an essay back to my daughter, it would be short.
"I am awake now. I am happy. I am sorry. I love you."
To the rest of the family I would say, "I see thee more clearly, I love thee more dearly, I follow thee more nearly."
So watch what you post on Twitter.
