ONE DAY

I could provide a million excuses why I haven’t written in this space of mine over the last four months, but the truth is the break wasn’t intentional. It just happened, as they do. One day rolled into the next and my daughter got taller and so did our dog and I never typed in the letters to unlock this place, to share the words that make this whole thing seem worthwhile, to reflect or document or analyze this time of our lives when living is far easier than we give it credit for. One day of contentment became the next, February became June, and I didn’t hold myself accountable enough to tap the keys, to sit and watch the sunset instead of closing the blinds because it did - until one day I missed it. 

I missed this space. I missed the inhale, the exhale, and the holding of my breath every time I came here to get something off my chest. One day, the little girl I spend most of my time writing about may be one of the people reading this and if she were to ask why I stopped, the million excuses I could provide would never be good enough. There will never be a bullet point in that list that explains why one day I stopped marrying words, why one day the stories stopped accumulating and this journal of mine came to a halt. The truth is I’ve still been writing, just not as often or here and about other things on occasion, while saving words about her to use as captions on a social media post, but I suppose one day I knew I would return to close the gap. 

Write while the heat is in you. 

The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. 

—Henry David Thoreau

I wasn’t sure when I started this blog what it would evolve into. It was a hobby, a chance to find my voice again, and a literary playground for my own amusement, but over time it slowly grew into this virtual scrapbook of sorts and I wished I’d started it earlier. I found my love for writing again because of it, I’ve “met” several people I otherwise never would have, I shared stories I probably would have forgotten, I’ve used it as a reference point or a timeline of certain events, and I find myself visiting to read over the words of Madison’s childhood if only to hold on to them a little longer. It’s easy to remember the milestones and the achievements, but parenting really is more about the little things in between.

I don’t share every detail of her life, of this whole fatherhood journey, but I do force myself to be honest and open and, more often than not, sentimental in an effort to capture the nostalgia of it all. She’s growing up so quickly, as cliché as it sounds, and the ride is equal parts exciting and difficult to let go of what was to see what’s next. She’s an amazing kid and being her father is the greatest privilege of my life. Documenting bits and pieces here and there seems like such a small task in the grand scheme of things. Sure, she may or may not be interested in a random post of her jumping on the bed or a short story of an impromptu game she created, but one day when I'm old and gray, I have a feeling I'll squeeze the truth from every word as if I'm raising my baby girl all over again.