I was having a sweet dance with Anastacia, my youngest daughter. Somewhere in that dance, something broke open. When the song ended I kissed her, then went looking for a dark corner to let the tears flow.
I try to visit my parents as often as I can. Most times I can't. And when I do, it takes real mental prep. I walk out depressed, shaken, sometimes it takes hours to come back to myself. The energy in that house has always been... a lot.
Our father-daughter dance took us both back to those younger days of dancing our bachatas. We were both babies.
So a few months ago, I did something about it. I asked my ex-wife's husband to meet me, man to man, face to face.
The most powerful control system for your body is right under your nose, and I have leaned on it since I was a kid navigating high tension chaos.
I have no degrees.
I do have certifications. One of them took me almost ten years and several attempts to finish. A Degree in Funny. Improv comedy.
Years ago, when I was determined to be the best dancer possible, I would go to a regular dance social on Thursday nights in Dallas.
I wanted to improve so bad.
At any given moment, I am the villain in at least three or four people's stories.
That used to sadden me.
My daughter had just told me she was pregnant.
Her boyfriend beside her, holding her. Carla in the room. And my baby girl, looking at me, waiting to see who her father was going to be in that moment.
For years, when laying our sleepy heads, I whisper in her ear:
Thank you for choosing me, again, today.
Then she echoes: thank you for choosing me.
This past weekend my bonus daughter asked me to officiate her wedding.
The third young woman walked off the stage and I did the math.
I looked to my left. I looked to my right.
On Fatherhood, Manhood & Becoming Better Ancestors.