The Only Thing I’ll Ever Do

I’ve been blogging for three years now… plus a week. I missed it because I don’t look at the calendar that much, but then again, why would I?

I’m just a dad, after all.

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Boo channels Dolly. (Parton or the sheep?)

Back when I started, I expected the blog to chronicle my broad interests and activities. I was going to be the daddy who gets involved in politics, goes to offbeat art openings, throws hilariously interesting parties, and hosts foreign friends on my couch at least three times a year.

But hey, now, I’m just a dad. Who has time for that stuff?

Despite my hopes and predictions being a dad is all I write about. (Let’s count the housework in “being a dad,” which I do, and all the picture-taking. But the occasional soul-refreshing trip to the hardware store for batteries? That’s me time!)

Looking back at my three years and 800ish posts, I realize that I’m by turns freakishly paranoidjudgmental as hell, unmasculine, and invisible. And, of course, proud. There’s nothing about the Bohemian interests I once pretended I had.

Which fits, since I’m just a dad.

And a tired dad, too. I’m so exhausted most of the time that fathering feels like a spectator sport. Even as I sit here, baby Claudia is engaged in her favorite hobby of banging her head against a cabinet, followed by exploring an electrical outlet. (Good thing her fingers got too big to get in there!)

So I’m a dad.

Though it’s probably not healthy, “dad” is how I define and occupy myself nearly every minute of the day. (Except that one night off I get per week, and I spend that one cooking for animals.) In fact, if it weren’t for writing to vent my alternating feelings of hubris and incompetence, I’d have the serious crazies by now.

Well, more serious crazies than I already have.

Three years down, 17ish to go. See you on the other side!