I’ve never been very handy. I think it’s the streak of perfectionism that runs through my blood combined with my lack of experience actually fixing stuff. It’s a deadly combo which often leads to long, frustrating days.
The first few years of our marriage, I tried. I could crush bugs in code all day long, but fixing stuff in the physical world just didn’t come naturally to me.
And then, my daughter was born.
I can vividly remember hovering over her little crib in the hospital. When she would cry, I’d lean in and place a finger in her tiny hand. Often this simple act was enough to quiet her.
A few years later and it’s clear that she is a bit dramatic. The slightest bump can turn her from giggles to screams. But you know who can fix a skinned knee, who can bring back the happy?
That’s right, I can.
I know it’s not the same. I know there is a special bond between a father and a daughter—one that allows even a clumsy handyman like me to comfort a dramatic little girl like my Tess. I know it and I’m ok with it.
And, while this ability I have will undoubtedly never improve my fixing skills around the house, I hope to always be able to make things better for my little girl. After all, that’s what Dads do.