Today, You Called Me Dad

And My World Crumbled

My baby, her daddy

Today, you called me dad.

The word came out small, no eye rolling, nothing out of the normal, a whisper really, but it was there.

Not daddy. Not dada.

Dad.

I flinched. Like being slapped. You didn’t know the difference, you moved on. I smiled. Nodded. I don’t even remember now what we were talking about.

Being your dada is soft, like a hug, like you need me. Being your dad is a hot blade.

I can’t always be your daddy, I know, I know. I have to be your dad. I will be. But I didn’t feel ready. You ambushed me.

Later, you call me dada again and my heart felt better. But we’ve crossed over haven’t we? We’ve crossed, you and I, into a different understanding.

This journey is about leaving and arriving. Always leaving. Always arriving. The leaving always hurts. The arriving doesn’t always feel better. Different yes, but not always better. I fear that there will be more leaving than arriving.

I can do this, little girl, you’ll always be a little girl won’t you? This isn’t new. I’m not alone. Such a small word, so so heavy though.

Show me, as we move forward. Show me how to be a dad. Go easy on me, I’ve never been one yet. I know only how to be your dada.

I tuck you in and you say, good night daddy, and I say goodnight baby and you’ll always be my baby won’t you? That will never change. Even when everything else does.