Single Dad Life

My dad was a cop.

Sworn to protect and serve… everyone except his own child, apparently.

He left shortly after I was born.

Maybe he got called to a never-ending shift, or maybe he just couldn’t handle diaper duty without backup. Either way, growing up, I had no father figure—unless you count that one guy from the hardware store who called me “champ” and gave unsolicited advice about mulch.

Fast forward a couple decades, and plot twist:

I’m the dad now.

Single. Sole provider. Head of snacks, security, emotional damage control, and spontaneous dance parties.

People say “being a single dad must be tough.”

And to that I say:

You haven’t lived until you’ve packed a lunch, taken a conference call, unclogged a toilet, and Googled “why is my toddler sticky again” all before 10 AM.

The other day I poured juice into a sippy cup, tripped over a LEGO, hit my knee, and spilled the juice down my shirt—my daughter looked at me and said,

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned she’s quoting reality TV at age five.

And bedtime?

It’s a 90-minute negotiation that ends with me asleep on the floor and her in my bed, snoring like a baby-sized freight train.

But let me tell you—this job? This unpaid, overworked, 24/7 gig?

It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

Yeah, I didn’t grow up with a dad to show me how to fix things.

So I YouTube it.

I’ve installed shelves that are slightly slanted, but spiritually aligned.

I’ve burned pancakes, forgotten picture day, and once accidentally sent my kid to school with leftover Chinese food for lunch that included a fortune cookie reading,

“Success will come to those who wait.”

(Which is what I told the teacher after she emailed me “Just checking in?”)

But here’s the truth:

Every time I start to wonder if I’m messing this up—

I see her laugh. I hear her say “I love you.”

I watch her fall asleep knowing she’s safe.

And I realize:

This is the cycle breaking.

This is the love I didn’t get, being passed forward.

Sure, my dad bailed.

But me?

I stayed.

Through teething. Through tantrums. Through the Great Lice Incident of 2022.

I’m not perfect.

But I’m present.

And in this house, that beats any badge.

So yeah—shoutout to the dads doing ballet buns with shaky hands, learning how to braid from TikTok, and showing up every single day on zero sleep and one reheated coffee.

We’re not just dads.

We’re legends with laundry piles.

And the legacy we’re building?

Doesn’t need to be flashy—just faithful.