Promises can take a long time to deliver. Sometimes they take a long time to give, too.
Several months ago, Lamb put a couple pieces of paper on the walls in her house. Each listed, "mom, dad, Mister, Lamb". One was by the door to the garage and one was upstairs by her bedroom. I asked her, what is this? Lamb told me that it was her "promise list."
Your "promise list?" I asked. "Yes. Remember you told me about the church promise? You and mom promised to take care of me, right?"
Oh, yeah. That we did.
I'm going to go backwards in time, here, so bear with me. Not long before the promise list appeared on her walls at mom's house, we (me, Mister, and Lamb) were driving to my parents' home for a visit. We passed by a cemetery and Lamb asked if that was a church, like where she was baptized. Lots of the headstones had crosses on them. So I explained that this wasn't a church.
And then Lamb asked me what exactly happened at the church when she was baptized? Wow. How do you explain that to a five-year-old? But I gave it the old college try, without trying to remember theology from high school religion classes and apply them to a different religion.
Well, I started, "It was like introducing you to God. Not that God didn't already know you, of course. So it was more than just introducing you to God. Me, your mom, and your jiddo and tata (grandparents) stood before God and promised Him that we'd take care of you. We promised that we'd do our best to make sure you grow up happy and healthy. God wants you to grow up to be a good person and we promised we'd do that."
Lamb seemed satisfied with that and didn't ask any questions. And she didn't mention it again until she made her promise list. It's funny what kids hang on to.
But when I thought about it, my off-the-cuff explanation was as good an explanation as I could have given. I stood that day of her baptism in church as her father. And that promise is more powerful than any law or court order could possibly ever convey.
And it wasn't a promise that I'd just given that day. It was a promise that I'd been making since the day she was born, looking back at it. Lamb was born on my birthday. At the time, I was simply a bit annoyed at my ex-wife for that coincidence. Despite my worries about the future, when Lamb was born, I took Mister to the hospital to see his mom and new little sister. And I held Lamb in my lap, too. My main concern was that I didn't want Mister to think of his sister as anyone but his sister, fully deserving of unconditional love. It couldn't be good for him--or his future wife--if Mister started off with a poor view of his sister. If I showed distance from Lamb, what would Mister learn from me? It didn't matter that Lamb's birth was a bit of a complication in our lives--in my life. Lamb was (is) truly innocent and does not deserve to be weighed down by the decisions of adults. Whatever else, I could not turn away his little sister. I had to treat her well. I had no legal responsibility to do any of this, but I couldn't see any other way of acting. I didn't intend to do more than that, but I didn't see how I could do less.
As time went on, when her mom had late night work schedules, I spent many a night after putting Mister to bed sitting on a recliner with little baby Lamb sleeping on my shoulder. I was unwilling to disturb her fragile sleep to put her in her crib, and so waited for her mom to get home from work, just listening to her sleep peacefully.
And whenever I came into my Ex's house, I'd announce myself by saying "Hello!" so as not to be mistaken for a burglar or something. And I always paid attention to Lamb and played with her or made goofy faces. As Lamb got older, she started to talk a bit. And when I'd come in, she'd call out "Allo!", like a little Cockney baby. My Ex said it was cute that she was saying "hello" to me. No, I said, I think she's calling me "Allo." She'd heard me say "hello" just about every day, and since I wasn't hovering over her asking her to say "daddy," that's what she learned to associate with me. I didn't finally win my argument until Lamb started to put words together. When she began to say "Bye Allo" when I left, that settled the argument. At least there is some sense to this. I still don't understand Lamb's early name of "Googie" for her brother.
But even as it was a little funny that Lamb called me "Allo," it also saddened me. She should have someone to call "daddy." Someone who would love her and take care of her, and swing her and carry her when she's tired. Little girls need a dad.
Time passed. Life settled down again. People got used to seeing me with Lamb. The neighbors of my Ex's parents remarked that it was amazing how much Mister and Lamb looked like me--that you usually didn't see that kind of resemblance.
I'd sometimes take Lamb to Mister's school when she was still in her stroller to wait for Mister to get out of class. And once, when I was there without Lamb, another dad asked me how old my youngest was. And I asked him, "Who?" And he said, your little girl? "Oh, I'm not her dad," I replied. I guess I was taken by surprise by the question. It was the only time I ever said that. There are all kinds of truth, I guess, but in my heart I knew that wasn't one of them. I felt sick for denying Lamb. I felt like I'd betrayed her.
As time went on, I took care of Lamb more and more. And Lamb went from calling me "Allo" to "B'ian", to "Brian." I played with her. Filled my home with toys for her. Provided space for her in my home even though I didn't have a room for her. She has clothes here and a desk and her own computer, and a shelf with books and videos that are all hers. She learned to love my pool in the summer and enjoy playing outside in her sandbox on my patio. And I swung her and picked her up so she dangled from my arms, and carried her when she was tired. And we played games she made up as she went along, and worked on her homework and science projects together. I worked hard to make my home her home as well as Mister's home.
I found that I cared very much for her welfare. I worried about her. She is a delightful little girl. And I started to quietly tell her I loved her when I put her to bed at night. It took me several months before I'd say it aloud so others might hear me. I was slowly becoming Lamb's dad. Or slowly realizing it, I should say.
And when I realized that I loved her as her dad, the fact that we shared the same birthday didn't seem so odd. People say that God doesn't speak to people anymore, but I wonder. Couldn't that coincidence of birthdays be more than chance? Is God really incapable of speaking to us--even obscurely--to let us know what we need to do? What we should do? And even if it is just chance, is the message any less true?
At some point, Lamb told her mom that she wanted "a poppa--like Mister has." My Ex wasn't sure what to tell her. So I told Lamb I'd always be her daddy. And that I'd always take care of her. But still Lamb did not call me daddy. She continued to call me by my name. My Ex asked me one day if I'd told Lamb not to call me "dad." That's what Lamb had told her, it seems.
So I sat down with Lamb and told her she could call me dad, or daddy, or Brian. But whatever she called me, I'd always be her daddy. Ok? She didn't say anything, but she listened.
In time, I noticed that she started referring to me as her dad when she mentioned me when talking to someone else, but she still called me Brian when speaking to me. And I still remember the first time she got mad at me and told me that she wanted a "new dad." Which is all a very normal thing for kids to say about their dads. What could I say to her? She already did that once, so it wasn't an empty threat as she assumed. She's a sweet little girl and anyone would be a fool not to want to be her dad. But I just told her that it didn't work that way. I'd always be her dad. Even when she's mad at me.
And Lamb told me that some kids in her class didn't know that I was her dad. Lamb said that she had a dad "just like everyone else in class." And sometimes a little child would ask me, "Are you Lamb's dad?" And I'd say, "Yes I am."
Pretty soon, she started mixing it up, calling me dad sometimes and sometimes Brian. More and more, Brian started to drop away. Now it is almost always "dad" or "daddy." And one day, fairly recently, Lamb asked me if I loved Mister more than her. She said she figured I did because Mister was older and I knew him longer. Why no, sweetheart, I said. I love you both the same. I'm the youngest in my family but that doesn't mean grandma and grandpa love me less. That's not how it works. And on her last birthday, while we sat at the table with her birthday cake, the sun came out after a rain. And you know what? A double rainbow shown in the sky. One for each of us, I told Lamb. I even got a picture of it. One strong one and a fainter one above it, both arcing across the sky. It seemed very fitting.
And my family has responded so well to Lamb. As Lamb got older and I took care of her more and more, I thought I should take her to meet them. They've taken her into their hearts, and now Lamb has more family to see and talk about. She loves to go to my parents for visits. And she is as welcome as Mister to family holiday events.
And Mister? He loves his little sister dearly. He is quite protective of her. Despite the cat-and-dog disputes they get into. So I guess even my first initial goals are achieved. And Lamb looks up to her big brother. I suspect that they'll always be pretty close as they get older and go their own ways in life.
So far, so good, it seems. When I took Lamb to an after-school science fair last month (where she won a first prize ribbon), Lamb ran around the halls with a little friend from her class. As her friend took off, she called out, "Follow me, daddy!" And her dad trotted off after her. And Lamb looked back at me, and repeated, "Follow me, daddy!" And I trotted off after her. Just to make sure she didn't get into any trouble or fall down, or get lost, or all the other horrible scenarios that dads worry about if we let our guard down for even an instant. And Lamb's broad smile and glittering eyes let me know that I was keeping the promise that I'd given on her behalf before God in His church. It was a promise that was a long time coming, but no less compelling.
I know that family and friends think I should make more effort to meet someone else. And I've tried. Really. I've met some women who I would have liked to pursue things further with, and a couple who gave me serious heart flutters, but it hasn't worked out. I wish I could have it all, as the saying goes. But it would be hollow if I succeeded in that part of my life at the expense of taking care of my responsibilities as a dad. And failing in this would be irresponsible and unacceptable. A promise to children is a special thing. Heck, it really isn't even a promise anymore. It just is the way it is.
So I find that I have two wonderful children to take care of. Truly, I'm a lucky dad.