“Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced.” ~ John Keats
I sat for a half hour watching Gavin play with a little boy about his age at the playground today... And the little boy's dad. And I couldn't help but start thinking how hard it must be for Gavin to see other boys with their daddies when his is not here. And then I had to stop myself.
Gavin does not remember his dad. He does not know what it was - or is - like to have a man in the house. It is probably not that hard for him, because its just the way it is.
The truth is, it's really only hard on me.
His reality does not include a Kurt sized hole sitting beside him, following him . The head of his kitchen table has always been empty. The left side of mommy's bed has always been his to sleep in. His reality, as much as I hate to admit it, is that daddy is a picture, not a person. It's mom he looks for when things go wrong. Mom he seeks out when he has a question. Mom he calls for when he wants to kick the soccer ball, or play with trains.
That's the way it has always been. Its normal. It's right.
I am his only reality.
His reality does not include terror at the sound of running water, or flashbacks in the bathroom. His reality does not include lonely Saturday nights wishing there was someone else to hold. Cold winter nights in a king-sized bed alone. A constant longing. A constant ache.
His reality does not include man to man talks with his father. Baseball games. Fishing trips. Or even a dad to teach him how to stand up when he pees.
It never did. And you cannot miss what you never knew. Long for it, perhaps. Wonder about it. But you cannot miss it.
And so I doubt he really misses his dad, even when the rest of the kids around him are interacting with their fathers. After all, he has his mom. He has always had his mom. That is his reality.
And in that reality, his mom is enough.
I have to be careful not to project my reality on him. To pass to him any of my pain. I do not want his reality to include mommy's tears, mommy's sadness, mommy's anxiety, mommy's loneliness. Mommy's life.
I cannot shield him from all the harsh realities of life. Already, his reality includes death. It includes sadness. I can't take that away.
But his reality is probably not as bad as I project it to be. And so I sit for hours in a splash park today, allowing the sound of running water to take me back to times and places better forgotten, just so his reality can be a little more normal. A little more fun.
I wouldn't wish my reality on anyone. Especially him.
And he deserves it.
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