When presented the opportunity to blog for epregnancy.com about the one thing that matters most in my life, something I had wanted to do of my own accord for too long but had not, I was admittedly overwhelmed.
I would get to write about being my daughter's father.
I spent the next several days poring over memories of the last eight years — Maddie's Mom and I found out we were pregnant almost exactly that long ago — trying to pluck a few details from mountains of moments until I finally reminded myself this is a blog and it's neither necessary nor in the interest of job security to tell our whole story in my first post.
A friend's sage advice was to introduce myself, build fatherhood "street cred," as she put it. Bring readers into my world and bear myself to them.
Of course, when cracking open the most intimate and cherished aspect of one's life, that isn't an easy undertaking. To understand why Madelyn Ryen is more important to me than anything — the very center of my existence, honestly — I would have to begin from the beginning, with my own childhood, broken as it was, something I seldom discuss and certainly have never exposed for the world.
That sensitivity is exacerbated when considering these writings are my living history to my daughter, part of the record from which she'll learn and understand her father, the choices he made — and resultant failures and successes — in his desperate attempt to be the best for her he could be.
In the agonizing (okay, perhaps too strong a word) over where to start, I've arrived at what should have been obvious from the beginning: When Maddie came into my life.
I've wanted children as long as I can remember. Okay, since I was about 12, but really, when you start wanting to have your own child at such an early age, isn't it essentially a lifetime? I had been especially drawn to babies, in a nurturing, loving way that I couldn't explain nor understand then, though I now recognize as vicariism, a catharsis for that which I lacked as a child.
But when Maddie's Mom called, crying, to tell me I was going to be a father, it wasn't the joyous occasion of which I had dreamt.
Mom (I'd prefer not to name her, so Mom will have to suffice) and I had, at that time, been dating for about three years, which was probably about two years too long. We met in college and had a lot of fun times together, but trust and honesty issues plagued our relationship and dug a hole from which we could never recover.
I was interning in New Orleans when the news came; Mom was back in Indiana. Our relationship was in disrepair when I left for the South, and had we not gotten pregnant, I'm certain we would have broken up that summer.
In the posts to come — should your interest warrant more — I will attempt to provide a nearly unfettered glimpse into my experiences as a single father trying to love and help raise his daughter from afar. I hope my words might answer questions, raise more, evoke emotion, and create a discussion about one of today's extremely prevalent, yet difficult and most undesirable parenting situations. If I am so fortunate, you and I will learn and grow through this dialogue, and our children will be the better for it.