On Fatherhood

I had to wait outside, outside alone, while she was coming. I had to be outside, alone with my thoughts, while she was fighting out. I won’t be outside, while she performs her miracles.

She stands on those minuscule baby feet, with miniature baby toes and a cheeky smile engulfing her face. An oversized bear is being dragged behind her as she stomps around, it too practicing it’s discovery of the joy of walking. She laughs, strange hiccupy laughs as she wobbles around, the eyes, which were her mothers, glint with the euphoria of discovery, of successful curiosity.

She lies in the snow, failing miserably at creating an angel. Her rapidly growing hair swiftly blinding her vision for brief seconds before being shifted out of the way. Her hands, covered in red mittens, clutch at the white fluff, combining it, creating a new, far larger compound of resources which she morphs into a crude ball. She briefly throws it away, before returning her attention to the hole that is supposed to be an angel.

She looks up at me, sweet button nose sniffing the air to check there are no goodies being hidden from her. Her recently cut hair straddling the pillow, stopping just before her shoulders. Her eyes slowly close, bored and done with listening to whatever garbage story I was reading. She lay completely calm, not quite still, but rested, peaceful and cosy in her vastly oversized bed.

She releases the ball, hard, right at her mom. It performs a perfect arc and lands easy in her mothers hand. She giggles in delight and yells at her mother to throw it back. The catching is her favourite part. She watches the ball’s release intently, observes its curve, backing up slowly. Then, as it gets closer, she retreats suddenly and just as the ball looks beyond catching she dives down covering barely a foot, and snatches the ball just before it reaches the cool earth. The dive is pointless. But, she insists, it makes sure the ball is in her hands.

She lies next to me, snuggling between myself and her mother. I play with a strand of her hair, rolling it around in my fingers. She’s perfect, a trait purely from her mother. She snores lightly, her chest rising and collapsing in unison with the sound. Her hands clutch at the couch, her feet push up against her mom. Her face is cradled in my arms. Her angel face is cradled in my arms. Her face is cradled in my arms.

She’s cradled in my arms. Tiny miniature, perfectly asleep, just like her mother. I smile down at her. I promise her, I promise her I will never be outside again. I promise her, I promise her, I promise her I will make mistakes, but I will never be outside again.

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