This is my 450th post here at the Fun Time, spanning more than 5 years of Daddy/Daughter hijinks. I’m in a retrospective mood.
I don’t know why I keep this blog, because the traffic here is infinitesimal. I know I have a few subscribers, but still. I get so anxious when I haven’t updated the blog every few days. I don’t want to disappoint the two search engines that are scouring for “Hot Tub Daughters.”
What is wrong with me?
In the end, I guess this is the closest thing I have to a journal that I can leave to my kids. I mean, I would love to have known what my father thought as he was raising my brother and me. Now, my daughters can hear in my own words:
Kids are a pain in the ass. (I chide of course.)
I have never bought into that whole Children Are Miracles movement that doesn’t find any fault in kids. They are still wonderful, but just not in a storybook kind of way.
I see in my own daughters the beauty on the outside and the evil under the surface. And, I also see the same in myself. (Though, less beauty. More frustration. Higher blood pressure. More wrinkles.)
And, I guess that’s what this blog is about.
Because, the difficulty in raising my daughters is more than made-up for when an 8-year-old snuggles closer at bedtime because she wants her Daddy. “I love you Daddy.” “I love you, too.” “You’re a great Daddy.” “Thank you.”
“But, in the morning, please, put away your shoes.”