Wednesday, December 18, 2013

I Fail...

During my first training academy for juvenile caseworkers, I challenged my trainees with the following question:

“What is your greatest fear?”

As they wrote and discussed the depth of my inquisition, my mind wandered off. My wheels began to turn and I thought about all the things I am afraid of. While doing this, I realized two things:

• I am afraid of a lot of things
• I am afraid of the fact that I am afraid of a lot of things

It’s true. From the moment I presented the question, I regretted it. In an instant, I was suddenly playing that dangerous but necessary game of self-reflection. Self-reflection, which I am afraid of, brings upon us vulnerability, which I am also afraid of. Still, it was happening. Like Greased Lightning, I was flying down that quarter mile with my mind running wild. Why?! Why did I decide to ask this question? Better yet, why did I decide to contemplate the question I asked them? Why? Why? Why?

I could have stuck with the softball toss. I could have given the standard interview question about weaknesses. I could have asked about lions, tigers or bears…oh my! Instead, I opened the door to self-criticism and self-doubt. Thus, the process began. I accepted it and I let it happen within me.

I do not hide behind a façade of masculinity, toughness or bravado. I can’t. It just won’t work for me. I am sensitive; overly sensitive at times. I am not sure where it comes from, and I cannot help it. I cry. I am not a stranger to it. I have cried during movies about dogs, YouTube videos about adversity, discussions about my family and while looking at pictures of my wife and kids. I am a sappy guy when it comes to my feelings, and I know it. I am afraid of it. But, it is just one more thing to add to my list of fears.

Still, all this self-reflection hadn’t led me to my greatest fear. While my list of fears was growing by the moment, my greatest one wasn’t there yet. As I watched my trainees work away at their greatest fears, a picture of my wife and kids caught my eye. Next to it on my corkboard, a quote was pinned up that reads “No one can be perfect.” There it was. My greatest fear was sitting in plain sight. A puzzle pieced collage of pictures of my family and quotes about failure, vulnerability and love was the answer. The question of “What is your greatest fear?” was answered clearer than ever before.

My greatest fear is failure. It is not failure in a general sense. It is failure when it comes to being a father and a husband. That is what terrifies me. The idea that I could fail at raising those two handsome boys that are so full of life and love rocks me to my core. The idea that I could fail at loving the most beautifully, perfect woman that I have ever met haunts me. And, most of the time, I feel like I am failing at both.

I worry about how to provide, be a role model and love my boys. Am I doing enough? How could I be better? Am I enough? And, often times, I feel like it is never enough.

I worry about how to provide, support and love my wife. Am I doing enough? How could I be better? Am I enough? And, often times, I feel like it is never enough.

Between work, my boys and my wife, I feel like I am pulled in a million different directions. In reality, it is just four directions, but my boys are fast so it feels like more. Those directions are all necessary, positive and ultimately wonderful but my fear of failure sometimes overshadows them.

However…that fear…that vulnerability…that sensitivity gives me the chance to be the father and the husband that I hope to be. I hope that my boys know that I am sensitive. I want them to see that fear, vulnerability, and sensitivity are necessary parts of life and love. I want them to know that behind whatever toughness and bravado that I am able to muster, there is a gentle, loving and understanding man underneath. I want my wife to know that under all the stress and overwhelming concern that there is tenderness and compassion. I want my family to see the weakest side of me, the most vulnerable and sympathetic, in order for them to know truly who I am.

So, yes…I am a man. And, yes…I cry. And, yes…I am afraid more often than I really would like to admit.

As I read Facebook feeds, parenting articles and watch “romantic” videos with my wife, I often feel like a failure. I usually feel like I am falling short somewhere. And, that is hard. It is heartbreaking and overwhelming at times. But, in the end, what really is the definition of failure? And, whose definition truly matters?

As a husband, I don’t sweep my wife off her feet like I used to. We rarely have the time, or the money, for romantic one on one dates at fancy restaurants. Instead, we share chicken nuggets with our twin boys while water cups and toys are thrown about. We don’t go out to late night movies and make-out in the dark. Instead, we snuggle on a mattress in the living room sharing popcorn and juice with two boys that climb all over us as the latest Disney/Pixar movie plays. We don’t take trips to romantic destinations. Instead, we spend our money on visiting family in Las Vegas for the holidays. And, when we finally get those moments alone, we usually end up eating Top Raman while watching re-runs of Friends until we fall asleep far too early. I fail.

I leave notes on the mirror, tell her she is beautiful and kiss her goodnight. It isn’t enough. It doesn’t truly show my love for her. I cannot afford flowers every weekend or expensive presents on Christmas. I cannot provide endless dreams when reality is knocking on the door. Still, I know I fail to be the man that she fell in love with. I am no longer the guy that can always sweep her off her feet with the right words, the right gifts and gestures. And, while I know the material items are not important to her, I cannot help but wish that I could provide them. I am the guy who still loves her with all of his heart. I am the guy that worries about her constantly. I am the guy that feels privileged to have her in his life. I am the lucky one. Still, I fail.

In this chaotic life, in those small seemingly ‘normal’ moments, she still sweeps me off my feet. My heart still flutters at her touch. I still smile with pride as she falls asleep to the rhythm of my heartbeat. And, through it all, I still feel amazingly blessed to wake up next to her every morning. Messy hair, stinky breath and sighs that the night was too short are common, but I wouldn’t change our ‘romantic’ moments for the world.

As I try to be a father, I know that she makes up for my failures. And, in reality, what could be more romantic than that! She is the parent that I strive to be.

I lose my patience. I get easily frustrated. I get overwhelmed. I ask for too much help. I struggle to provide. I struggle to teach. I watch too turn much television. I fail.

I give them too much milk, and it isn’t organic. I give them too many fruit snacks, and they aren’t organic. I serve my boys frozen chicken nuggets and fish sticks, neither of which is probably really chicken or fish. And, we share Kit-Kats and Gummy Bears. I fail.

I raise my voice. I sigh. I grumble. I’ve cursed. I pull the little hair that I have left out. I worry until I’m sick. I cry when everyone is asleep. I fail. I provide for them as best I can. We sacrifice so mom can be with them. We struggle so they can have us at home as much as possible.

I get to eat lunch with them every day. They smile. They giggle. They throw food at me. They wait for me at the door at the end of the day. Both of them reach out for me begging to be held. I hold them. They kiss me. I rub their heads. I chase them around the house, tackle them and tickle them until they cannot stop giggling. I bathe them. I play cars in the bath. I lotion their little bodies, brush their teeth and help put on their jammies. I snuggle them as they drink their milk at night. We watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or Henry Hugglemonster as we hold hands. And, as I put them to bed with my beautiful wife, the one who makes our house run, I kiss them good night. I tuck them in and as they tell me “ni ni”, I cry. The tears may not be streaming, but I cry.

Somehow, someway…I was blessed with this life. It is a life that terrifies me. It is a life that I don’t deserve. It is a life that I love. So, for at least one more day, I can say…I failed. I failed again. But, if this is failure…then maybe, just maybe, failure isn’t always so bad.

Justin AKA The Bad Idea Dad