It just fucking nailed me. Tears streamed down my face. The opening of the song is a little kid waking up in the night after dreaming his dad died. In a panic, he went down to his daddy’s room where he got comfort. He got safe. He was at home…where he belonged.
The tears started because I felt the opposite. I felt unsafe at home. I flashed back to a memory of my own. Getting out of bed to make sure the door was locked. My dad told me, “Don’t be such a worry wort.”
I couldn’t relate to the daddy described in “That’s My Job.” The dad who says, “That’s my job. That’s what I do. Everything I do is because of you…to keep you safe with me. That’s my job you see.” I didn’t feel safe, so I tried to lock the door, because that was a logical way little me could get some piece of mind. But, instead of getting comforted or made to feel safe by my dad, I got frowned at.
And that shit affected me. But, it’s cool to go back into those memories now from a place of strength rather than as a weak little kid. I can learn from those times, write about them and heal.
I want to get to the point that I can see how my dad would feel listening to that song. I thought I felt unsafe, but holy shit…hearing just little pieces of how he grew up…I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. He was only capable of giving so much.
No one can be the idealized, perfect dad from a song. Yesterday, I felt like I had an off day with the kids. I didn’t sleep much the night before and was slow to get moving during the morning hours. I napped off and on while the kids played games and watched TV.
I felt guilty. I had stayed up too late and it affected how present I was able to be with the kids. But, somehow it still ended up being a great day. We ended up at the park and randomly, Blake’s best bud showed up too.
That gave Riley and I a chance to talk. She just started sharing a story with me about being accused of kicking a ball in another kid’s face. The kid happened to be the goalie in the soccer game, whose job is to get kicked in the face. Also, Riley didn’t do it. But, she wanted to share the story with me. And talk about how it felt.
And just as I’m writing this I realized she feels safe with me. She feels like she’s home. She knows she can tell me anything. Her hard times. Her triumphs. Her fears. Her doubts. Her fuck ups. She fell out of bed the other night. But, she knew I’d be there to pick her up.
I’m not the dad from the song. I’m imperfect. But, I love her and she knows it. Yesterday she asked for a lot of paper. And, while I was sleeping, proceeded to make me an “I love you” book. 10 pages of her creatively telling me how much she loves me.
She wrote XOXO all over one page then said, “Oh yes and 1 more thing XO XO XO.” Another page said, “Ha! Did you know you’re the best dad ever?” It was overwhelming to read back through it just now. To know that I may not be giving her home in the traditional sense, but she knows she’s home when she’s with me.
It’s extra cool for me because she gave me that on a day when I felt like a fuck up. My super conservative past conditioned me to let fuck ups weigh me down and paralyze me. But, Riley gave me back what I’ve given her…the knowledge that she loves me WHILE I’m messing up, which is an exact quote that I’ve given her. It’s not conditional.
My therapist and I have been kind of amazed at where some of my good parenting moments come from. But, the other day we kind of realized that when it changed was when she started working with me. When she gave me grace when I knew I didn’t deserve it, I could finally give myself a break. I could finally get onto the path that I’m on now where I actually love myself.
I didn’t have to be perfect and it was such a relief. So now, in the midst of a day when I’m a less than of a dad, Riley and I can still find the time for a heart to heart. My therapist said the other day that we’re becoming, but we never become.
We don’t have to have all the answers. We don’t have to figure it all out. As long as we’re real and honest and don’t shy away from facing the uncomfortable, life is pretty friggin great. And Riley is beginning to experience the beauty of being real. The last thing I want for her is to be perfect.
Perfect people don’t exist. But, people who try to come off as perfect are the ones whose lives say, “Do as I say, not as I do.” And if you fall for that, your life is miserable, because your life will never be as perfect as seemingly perfect people’s lives appear to be.
But, all that is bull shit. Give me real over perfectionism or legalism. Under the surface there's always imperfection. Pretending that there's not or that we have it together is living a lie. I want Riley to do as I say and do as I do. The truth will set her free. And the truth is we're not perfect, nor will we ever be. I want her to fuck up, not for the sake of fucking up, but just because it’s inevitable. But, when she fucks up I want her to be honest about it. And face it and own it and give herself grace.
I could never give myself grace as a kid. I’m so thankful that because of my therapist giving me grace that I’m able to give it to my kids. We can’t really give or receive love if we don’t love ourselves. And when grace popped into my life and I started being able to love myself…that’s when I became a better dad.
I said recently that I feel like when I’m drinking a lot people love me because of my drinking, but really people love me in spite of my drinking. And it’s the same kind of concept that played out with Riley yesterday. I was trying to be a perfect dad and felt guilty when I needed a nap. Riley showed me that she loves me as is. She doesn't want me to be perfect. And she got that from me. That’s my job. That’s what I do.
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