My presence was her only gift
By: Kern Carter
Tags: Teenagers, Parenting, Fatherhood, Love, Parenting Advice

It’s one of the universe’s strange gifts. When we’re going through hard times, it’s difficult to see the day we’ll be able to smile again. But once we get through those moments and take the time to reflect, it’s often done with a smile and nod to acknowledge what we’ve overcome.

I certainly wasn’t smiling many years ago, not during the holidays. Christmas was a time I feared, a day that reminded me of my inadequacy as a provider for my daughter.

Before my daughter ever entered this world, I dreamt of what her life would be. My imagination soared into a home large enough for her to run with her arms open. My dreams revealed images of gifts under a Christmas tree so tall I’d have to tiptoe to touch the star that sat at its peak. Her life would be perfect. Our life would be perfect.

None of this was real. Five years into my daughter’s life, I still couldn’t afford to buy her gifts. I suffered through the embarrassment on her birthday where my mom’s gift doubled as my own. By the time Christmas rolled around, I wanted to close my eyes and disappear into the world that I had dreamt long before it was shattered by my reality.

I questioned my role as a parent. What was my contribution to my daughter’s life? My upbringing told me that I needed to be a provider, specifically a monetary one. If I couldn’t fulfil that responsibility, then I was failing.

“You’re not a real father if you don’t have any money.”

That mindset crippled my self-confidence for years. The myth that my value as a father needed to be counted in dollars and cents was a truth contrived by my environment and reaffirmed by popular culture. It took the wisdom of my daughter to open my eyes to her truth, and in her truth, I found a love that has carried us till this day.

In my daughter’s world, she had everything she wanted. She got to squeeze my cheeks with both of her tiny hands and kiss my nose. She got to climb on my back at bedtime and carried to her room, only to wake up the next morning to jump on my bed till I was awake.

My presence was her gift. The only gift she needed.

She had food to eat, clothes to go to daycare and then kindergarten, and a safe place to call home. Everything outside of that was a projection of my own invention. The inadequacy I felt wasn’t because of any disappointment displayed by my daughter, it came from me. It came from failing at what I thought was my most important duty as a parent.

It took my daughter’s smile on Christmas morning to break that indoctrination. She was up early, pouncing on my bed as always, pulling me to come downstairs. But it wasn’t the gifts she was excited about. My mother was awake, as well, slicing ham she would cook on the stove that we ate with homemade bread already in the oven.

My daughter wanted us to sit at the table together. Together.

I poured hot chocolate into both of our cups. We sipped slowly till the bread had cooled and was ready for a layer of butter. I couldn’t believe how perfect that moment was and I remember feeling stupid for not seeing this before.

She wanted us to sit at the table together. Together.

My daughter can’t remember any of the gifts we bought her at that age. I can’t either. But I remember that moment because it changed me, or more accurately, started me on a journey of unlearning what the world had taught me. My value was far beyond a dollar sign. I was worth so much more than I knew.

Today, I can buy my daughter anything she wants. She won’t have to pay a dime for her education and she can decide whether or not she wants a part-time job during her studies. Now Christmas is a lot closer to those images that filled my mind before she came into this world, but our holidays aren’t about obsessing over gifts. Some years, I’ll buy her gold watches or necklaces with her last name. Other years, she doesn’t want anything. I’ll ask her over and over again and she’ll refuse.

As long as we’re back at my mother’s house on Christmas morning, sipping hot chocolate and buttering homemade bread, her Christmas is complete. Our connection is complete.

My presence is her gift.