602 months ago yesterday, I was born.
When I was eight years old, all I wanted to be was a dad.
My father is my hero. I’ve always wanted to be as good a father as he was, and have always wanted to make sure that my parents, especially my father, was proud of me and the things that I did and the person I became.
I didn’t attain that goal. I’m not nearly the father that my father is, and frequently, I think that I am more of a disappointment to my parents than I am a joy. It’s OK. I’ve learned to accept it, and I continue to strive to do the right things. But I really wish that I could have been more of a joy to them than a disappointment.
My children are a joy to me. They don’t always do the right things, but I am so thankful to have them in my life. I just want to be as helpful to them as a father as I can. But sometimes, I feel like I have even failed them.
I’m human. I make mistakes. But I try very hard to do the right thing at least 95% of the time. Still not good enough. But I’m not giving up. I want my children to know that I love them, unconditionally, and will help them however I possibly can moving forward. Sometimes, I can’t, for whatever reason, but they need to know that they are a priority in my life and I will always be there for them. Always.