Game on

My dad was a football player. A pretty good one, I'm told. He was a star player in high school and college, set some records, even played pro for a smidgen of a moment. He had (and even has to this day) a hard time letting go of his glory days.

I thought of it as no coincidence that he had a hard time letting go of the days when his kids worshipped his every move. He would talk wistfully about the time when we adored him, before we started calling him to task about this or that. I never had much empathy for him for that. "Suck it up," I'd think. "Kick your damn ego out of the way so we can interact like adults."

But I'm starting to sprout a little empathy for the man. A body could get used to all of this hero worship. It is heady, heady stuff. Anonybabe gets pissed with me, sure, and often. But I'm still the greatest thing since sliced bread as far as she's concerned. I find myself forgetting that this has got to change, and will soon.

She is usually still asleep when I go to work, but she woke everybody up before dawn this morning, chattering her head off. We got to eat breakfast together, and then I suited up for the cold. Usually the sight of my coat and hat are enough to elicit moans from Anonybabe, but this morning she said brightly "Bye, Mama! Bye bye!" I am ashamed to admit that it was very very hard to kiss her and leave while the getting was good. "Where are the tears?" I thought. "Where is the gut-wrenching need for me?" I hesitated, found myself waiting for it...then had to will myself out the door.

Oh, god. In how many microscopic ways am I fostering dependence? I regularly shock myself with my own ugly desire to be the center of her world. I want to be aware of her need for me, respectful of it, tender with it. But I want to be happy for her when she is content without me.