Because Unexpected Is Best.

Can we pretend that my previous post, of a mere few days ago, regarding the heinous and absent nature of Eva's father didn't really happen?

Not that I completely want to eat my words, but maybe I'll just nibble on them a little. Around the edges. Take a bit off the top.

Let's move back a bit - back to the morning after I wrote that blog post. I woke up, as I do every morning, with a sweet little 3 year old munchkin climbing sleepily into bed with me. While all projections of co-sleeping with a toddler are wildly over-glamorized and even, I dare say, ridiculous, the precious early morning moments when your child 'sneaks' into bed, both of you sleepy and content, are nothing short of magnificent. So, it is safe to say that my morning-after started off well. I proceeded to call a good, very good, friend of mine who is in a similar life situation that I am.  A single mother with heaping mounds of wisdom, patience and fortitude. She is the picture of everything I want to be as a mother and woman. Incredible, just incredible. We'll call her Ms. T.

Well, Ms. T is always there for me when I call frantic and in dire need of advice. She speaks words that I already know, or that I should already know, but makes sense of it all in practical terms. Her daughter's father is the only man I know who contests Evas's father for stupidity and a-hole-ness (not a word, I know, I gotta keep this G rated). And yet, somehow, Ms. T is able to take all of the difficulty that 'he' has placed in their lives and makes the best of it. And I don't say that lightly. I mean, she makes the ABSOLUTE best out of a terrible situation. Perhaps even better than some co-parents.

For what does she give her daughter? Trust. Faith. Acceptance. Validation. Opportunities for growing, thinking, comprehending.

Ahhh, what more would I want for my Eva?

And that Ms. T, why, she had the audacity to suggest that my solution be thus:

Eva, sobbing : "I want my daaaaddy!"

Me: "Ok, sweetheart, would you like to call him on the phone?"

Wait, what? What?! Nonono, that can't be right. She must not understand. He. Is. Awful. Unworthy. Slime. Poison.

But wait, could it be that perhaps the relationship of Spencer+Nicole might have a different equation than Spencer+Eva? Maybe, just maybe, by not allowing my daughter to express and feel validation in a basic desire that stems from her 3 year old heart - the simple desire to have her daddy (and no, not Spencer - the person; her daddy - the concept of fatherly love) - I am the one hurting her?

Wow.  That was a biggie.

And only Ms. T could have said it in a way that gave me courage and strength, not humiliation and despair. She really is amazing, isn't she? I know. We should all have friends like her. Seriously.

And so, I called Him. Ya, I did. No, serious. On the phone. Spontaneously. I was Nicolebobpowerpants - strong and confident woman IN - EFFING - CHARGE. It felt good. I quit caring about the games he plays, the constant chess board that I find myself in whenever we converse, and I opened up to his sensibilities - which I'm not really sure are there, but I hope are - as a human being and as Eva's biological father. I hope, sincerely, desperately hope, that somewhere in his DNA is the capability to be a passable father figure to Eva, if only for her sake. While the conversation was left on a positive note, I still remain skeptical. But that's okay, I think. That's my job. As long as it doesn't interfere with Eva's budding relationship with her father. As long as I'm only the referee on the sidelines, watching for incongruities and fouls, calling penalties where needed and taking Eva to the sidelines for encouragement, direction and advice. If he breaks her heart? Yes, that will be awful. I will hate him all the more. But HE will do it. Not I. And I can try to make the best of that situation and help it be a learning experience for her.

And that's the worst case scenario. What's the best? Somehow he pulls the mediocre-father card out of his butt somewhere and fosters a caring relationship with her? And I wouldn't want that? I'd be a selfish lunatic if I said no.

So yes, Eva now insists on sleeping with her 'Daddy picture' - a picture of Spencer I put in a frame for her. I pry it out of her chubby grasp every night, her breath steaming the glass, and I place it on her bedside table. I cry a little, my heart breaks a little, I hate it a little. No, a lot. I hate it a lot. But it makes her happy, it gives her peace. I like the thought of my daughter being happy and peaceful. So I take a deep breath, I try not to bash the photo into the wall, and I place it gently down. She will find it in the morning, no doubt, and will coo lovingly, "Aww, my daddy picture... I love you, Daddy." I'll cringe at that one, too. But for now, she'll be happy and peaceful.

What more could I want?

Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy. Santa. Daddy.

What do these 4 things have in common?

Eventually my daughter will stop believing in them - in things she can't see.

I try to keep my blog clean and void of emotional rantings which contain little purpose but to cry out for much needed affirmation, encouragement.... perhaps denial that the things that scare me the very most are true. I try to act as though I am unfazed by the absenteeism of Eva's father, even grateful for it. I try to keep myself from breaking down as I hold my 3 year old while she cries for her Daddy. I try not to get upset. I try not to become bitter. I try not to hate men. It is not easy, and it's been getting harder.

Eva's getting older - physically and mentally. She is so clever, too clever. At times I shake my head at the impossibility of the job I have in front of me as her mother. I don't have the skills, the experience, the knowledge, the right words. Most nights I'm left wondering what the hell I'm doing, how it is I'm going to raise this child - by myself - to become a successful human being.

How can I shield her - protect her - take the bullet for her?

How can I?

For what is hurting her, causing her to cry so bitterly it would break any heart that witnessed it, is fused to her very existence. I cannot change the past any more than I can change her DNA. I cannot make her father come back to her. I cannot make him want to be with her. I cannot take that pain away.

For the most part, when I express these concerns to others - perhaps you, out there, have counseled me in this fashion at some point, and do not take offense by my following words for I know that all your intents and purposes was to help, never harm - but the hardest thing to hear when I earnestly need an ear to pour my worries into, is that everything will 'work out' or 'be ok' or 'she'll be fine without him'. I understand the intention is to make me feel better, but I feel as though I could just scream, "It will not be ok, because it will not go away! What is your definition of 'fine'?!"

I realize my daughter will not cease to exist from wanting her father - yet the tears she cries, the desires she confesses - they make ME want to cease to exist. And her deepest desires are so innocent, so pure, so simple and meager that the fact that they will not be granted is enough to case a great discomfort in my gut. And I have. no. power. "I want him (my daddy) to live with me."  "WHY can't he read my a bedtime story?" "I want him to love me!" "Is ____ going to be my Daddy, please?"

I've been perusing articles on the internet for guidance. There are numerous other single mothers out there, all who are yearning for answers to the same questions that I am. 'How do I explain to my daughter that he dad doesn't want to see her?' 'My Baby's daddy doesn't want to see her! What do I tell her?' Absent Father: Advice for Single Mothers Without Dad. I read these articles rapid-fire quick, waiting for the answer to spell itself out on the screen - complete with angelic hosts of angels and bold, highlighted, 100 type-size print - and tell me exactly what to do. The formula. The fix. The tried and true, proven blueprint that will make, as others have claimed, 'this all be ok.'

But alas, it is not so. Because I can only control MY actions. I cannot control his. I cannot even control hers - she will feel this in every capacity that she herself decides - I can only guide her through it. At times I feel as though I could force him into her life, hold him at gun-point-head-under-water-noose-around-his-neck while he pretends to be a 'good', present father figure and proves to her that not all men are deadbeats and she should believe in the goodness of the sex beyond the existence of a few, albeit colossal, assholes. Other times I wish to 'black bag' him - just get rid of him and claim immaculate conception. She'd buy it, right? Well, maybe for a few years.

I've tried the 'our family is different and that's okay' approach; as well as the 'you may not have a daddy but you have a mommy/papa/nana/uncle/auntie who loves you like crazy, so it'll be okay'. I had high hopes. I put such weight into the antidote-like nature of those words. But wait - hey - no fair - why is she still crying?

It's nights like tonight that I realize that no words I utter can replace the hole he has left.

And that, sadly, is that. No rainbow after the storm, no silver lining - it really will suck. In this vein at least. I suppose my sights should be set on uplifting other aspects of her life that I CAN control, for in this regard, there is no 'okay'.