When Levi was born, I was so afraid to touch him.
Prior to his birth, I rarely held babies and really did my best to avoid interacting with children. I always felt so uncomfortable around them.
I remember seeing him lying on the table as they cleaned him up. I could hear him crying and I really had no idea what to do. Luckily the nurse could see my deer-in-the-headlights expression and was quick to suggest I take a picture to kind of keep me grounded.
Now, there are days when I come home and I see his things and I know that despite his toys, clothes and bed being here, he won’t be. And it kills me.
On the days where I drop him off at his mom’s, knowing it will be at the very least two days before I see him again, it takes everything for me not to cry. Most of the time I say my goodbyes and then rush back to my car and focus on getting to work. Then when I get home and see his things, I either immediately find something to do or I binge Netflix until the urge to cry passes.
It’s so hard to not see him everyday.
I miss his laughs and his hugs. I hate knowing that when I see him again, I will have missed out on so much. He’ll have learned something new and I won’t know about it until he does it. (His mom doesn’t communicate anything with me)
I just wanted so much more for him. Having a father who abandoned my mom and I, I really wanted so much more for my children.
It never crossed my mind that we’d find ourselves where we are now. I really expected so much more out of my marriage. And yet some how, the burden of it’s failure still ends up laying on my shoulders.
I’d give anything to know I’d see my son everyday. That I could put him to bed every night and here his voice every morning.
He deserves so much more and I just hate myself for how much I’ve let him down.
If there is one thing I try to survive everyday, it’s knowing that I can’t give my son his family.