Not My Human

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My wife and I have an occasional debate as to whether or not my daughter has asthma. Her doctor's say she has most of the symptoms of an asthmatic (as do I) and it can be triggered easily triggered by allergies or colds. This bit of info is enough for me to deny calling her an asthmatic.

The debate between my wife and I only arises when my daughter's symptoms arise as they did this week. A cough that came out of nowhere overtook her quickly the night of the Superbowl and by Monday evening she was beginning to wheeze.

I'm typically very cool under pressure. However the one thing I cannot endure is my child not being able to get a full breath of air. I get angry quickly and begin to bark. Why? Because I've had bronchitis more than once as an adult and unless you've actually felt what's it's like to not be able to bring air into your lungs, you can't relate. I can call 911, I can tell someone or write out (to conserve air) what's wrong. My daughter, nor any child for that matter cannot. And for this reason I hate cigarette smoke, cat dander and anything else that can trigger such a thing as if they were the Devil themselves. What made matters worse, is we were out of medicine and I had overlooked refilling the prescription because it's almost been a year since her last episode.

Tuesday night I didn't sleep. I sat in her room on my iPod Touch, surfing the Net and watching the rise and fall of her chest, regulating the heat and the humidifier in her room, sitting her upright if she coughed, patting her back and rocking her (as my dad did me) back to sleep when she awakened from the discomfort of it all. At sunrise I picked up her prescription, her symptoms subsided and somehow I made it through the day with no sleep, a bit of personally disappointing news and the threat of the snowstorm of life being flashed on every channel on television.

Yesterday afternoon I took her to a park in my neighborhood where, armored from head to toe looking like a pink Stormtrooper (or pink mercenary), she pelted me with little snowballs, chased her grandfather at 1 mile per hour and made snow angels, laughing through all of it the whole time. I had to literally pick her up off the ground to get her to leave.

When I dropped my daughter off at pre-school this morning, my heart swelled as it does every morning. I lose a piece of me every time I part ways with her. But I don't own her. Despite all of what I described above she is NOT my human. She is my child and what I own is the responsibility of raising her and her brother, who currently believes he is God's gift to women and football, (Update: he managed to pull up all of his grades to a modestly respectable level for his 2nd quarter of high school. Now his challenge to to continue to pull them up even higher), protecting them and teaching them as much as I can until they leave the nest.

She kissed me and walked off. I watched her dive into her classroom to play with her little friends before school officially started. Despite my heart-swell, I did as I always do, I suck it up and walk away. This is the beginning of her path, whether she remembers it or not. I have to let her walk it and discover it on her own because after all, she's here to serve her purpose, just like we are all here to serve ours.

This has been your Friday Fatherhood Inspiration from MakesMeWannaHoller.com. I hope you were inspired.

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