Tiny hands

Since that first time, the tiny fists had always gotten to him. He’d always been overwhelmed with a protective fierceness and a tender smile at the same time when he saw them. There was something about them that flooded him with affection. Every time.

He remembered the first time. She was about three months old at that point, and it was bedtime. He rocked her in the glider they bought second-hand just for this purpose. He was holding her with his left arm, and patting her bottom with his right hand. He sang songs of his religion to her each night to put her to sleep.

And just as if she’d had years and years of practice, the little fist came up to her eye and began to rub. Left hand to left eye, in a gentle back-and-forth to push the sleepiness away.

He remembered being astounded. Just absolutely spellbound at how naturally it had come to her. No training, no learning by watching Mom and Dad do it. She just….knew how to do this.

At that moment, he felt so connected. He’d never experienced that type of closeness to her before. Cognitively, he’d always known that she was a real person, a breathing the same air, flesh-and-blood human being. But he felt it more powerfully than ever before, as she began to do perfectly normal, natural, very human things.

The realization made him smile while the tears streamed down his face..

He enjoyed the bedtime routine. A quick sponge bath with a cloth and warm water, some baby lotion to keep her skin from drying out, then changing the diaper and putting on the PJ’s. She always got fussy right then as she realized it was nearly bedtime. Then a bottle, a burp, a swaddle, and rocking her to sleep in the glider, gently patting her little backside to give her comfort until she was nearly asleep. As she was drifting off, a kiss on the forehead and a whispered “I love you,” as he lay her down.

He missed those times on days like today.

He was her father. Her Daddy.

He envisioned tea parties in chairs far too small for his frame, seated at a table with her stuffed teddy that her grandfather gave her (who was really the king of the realm, of course) and the plush dinosaur his mother gave the baby because he’d been dinosaur-crazed as a child (but the dinosaur was really the queen - “Duh, Daddy!”).

He was supposed to drop her off for her first day of Kindergarten. He was going to be the legs she hid behind until she made a friend. He was going to cry to himself in the car the day she ran into school without so much as a backward glance as she threw a “Love you, Daddy!” over her shoulder as she ran into school the first time, both proud of her independence and sad that she no longer needed him to help her through this hurdle.

He was going to the one she told all her stories to about the goings-on in her school, who had a crush on whom, and who got in trouble for passing notes in class. He was going to be the one to ground her when she was the one who got caught passing notes, happy that she had friends and concerned that she wasn’t being a kind person. How would he teach her to be better at that?

He was looking forward to being the one to sit through soccer practices and music recitals. Maybe dance recitals? Would she prefer a tutu to the violin? Piano perhaps? Maybe she’d be as musically inclined as him, in which case there’d be more soccer practices (basketball?) than recitals.

He wasn’t looking forward to her first broken heart, but he was looking forward to being present to comfort her. He hoped his fury at the offending boy would make her feel loved.

Not long after she was born, he began praying for the patience he’d need to teach her how to drive. He knew already that she’d be a challenge; as he fed her those nighttime bottles, she was easily distracted by the ceiling fan. He feared teaching her to focus on all the things she needed to know to be a safe driver would be a challenge.

He was supposed to guide her in how to be an adult. He was supposed to walk her down the aisle one day, likely a blubbering mess on the inside but putting on a brave face so she can be the princess for a day. Inwardly a mixture of emotions, equal parts elation at the expansion of his family and utter sadness that his baby girl is a grown woman, leaving his home and starting her own family.

Already, he was building up in his mind the day he’d get to hold his own grandchild. Would it be a boy or a girl? What would they name the baby? He’d get to coo and play, and hand the child back to them whenever there was a dirty diaper.

He saw all of this in a flash, in an instant, in his mind’s eye. As those tiny fists balled up once again, moving by instinct to her eyes. They are much larger than they were the first time, but still so small, barely able to grasp two of his fingers at the same time.

First, he had to make it through today.

Days like today, he felt like a tremendous failure. A fraud, even. He was her father, Daddy, the jungle gym and the protector. He was the one strong enough to toss her into the air when they played, and still catch her gingerly. He was supposed to keep her from every harm. That’s what fathers are supposed to do. But he was helpless against this…...evil.

The doctors said that leukemia is one of the most common types of pediatric cancer, and they were hopeful that treatment would help.

As her tiny hand reached to her eyes to rub them once again, the IV line caught on her bed and she cried out softly. He quickly reached over and got it unstuck so the morphine could give her some relief. That’s all he could do right now to help her.

That and pray that he’d still get to see the tea parties and broken hearts.