Daily Journal

"Napkins"

Sometimes being a parent is more than what meets the eye.  Being a mommy or a daddy in the true sense of the word means living through the "yuck" to get to the "yum".  It means long nights rocking a sick child, long days battling tantrums, fights, and attitudes.  It means being present, showing up.  It means administering medicine at 2:30am, clapping at the end of a mediocre school play, or even driving to the store at 9pm because somebody forgot to tell you cupcakes need to made.  

For school.  

Tomorrow.

Being a parent means you're available for all the ordinary miracles that encapsulate a life.  That you see the slow rise and fall of bodies as they sleep.  That you see the spark of understanding when working on number patterns and ordinals.  That you hear the sweet symphony of dinner being made and eaten, chairs scraping, and screen doors slamming in the clamor to get outside before it gets dark.

Being a parent is the addition of one block of memory at a time until a family is built.  It's the block of movie night and snuggling.  It's the block of a towel fresh from the dryer being wrapped around a slick, shiny body.  It's the block of a knowing glance and an inside joke.

But even if a parent isn't around to experience all the little things, does it mean they're not still a part of you?  Am I not half of my mother and my father, half of commitment and abandonment, half of steadiness and precariousness? 

I often wonder about that.  How much of me is shaped by the father I didn't really know; how much of me is shaped by the father who died almost a year ago in Texas? 

All I do know is this:  I wrap my napkin around my drinks.  And that is proof that he existed.