602 months ago yesterday, I was born.

When I was eight years old, all I wanted to be was a dad.

My father is my hero.  I’ve always wanted to be as good a father as he was, and have always wanted to make sure that my parents, especially my father, was proud of me and the things that I did and the person I became.

I didn’t attain that goal.  I’m not nearly the father that my father is, and frequently, I think that I am more of a disappointment to my parents than I am a joy.  It’s OK.  I’ve learned to accept it, and I continue to strive to do the right things.  But I really wish that I could have been more of a joy to them than a disappointment.

My children are a joy to me.  They don’t always do the right things, but I am so thankful to have them in my life.  I just want to be as helpful to them as a father as I can.  But sometimes, I feel like I have even failed them.

I’m human.  I make mistakes.  But I try very hard to do the right thing at least 95% of the time.  Still not good enough.  But I’m not giving up.  I want my children to know that I love them, unconditionally, and will help them however I possibly can moving forward.  Sometimes, I can’t, for whatever reason, but they need to know that they are a priority in my life and I will always be there for them.  Always.