MANifesto.

Facial hair.  A large pickup truck.  Camouflage clothing.  Go ahead, sport it.  Doesn't mean you're a man.

On another blog I write, I talk about many subjects, some of which most people would categorize as "manly".  That's all well and good, but grilling meat, traipsing out of doors, and listening to country music doesn't automatically earn you an invitation to be in the Man Club.  That prestigious honor is only bestowed upon you if you are a good, moralistic, caring person that happens to be of the male gender.  At least that's how I see it.

Do you do all you can for your family?  In many cases, it's our job to commute to the office, factory, or field five or six days a week to earn that 100% necessary paycheck to maintain a certain lifestyle, or scratch and claw to provide food and shelter.  Other times we take a different role and commit to raising our children while our significant other earns the necessary paycheck.  This version may not be as old fashioned, but I don't find it unmanly.

Personally, I've done both.  I've worked an exhausting, honest 40 for the paycheck that helps provide food, a house, cars, and clothing.  I've served that role the majority of my life, sometimes earning decent money, sometimes barely getting by.

Currently, I'm staying at home, raising my daughter all day.  I've done that for about a year...she's 16 months old now.

This version of providing for your family, I've found, can be scoffed at.  I think that's unfortunate.

Being a father and a husband is about providing.  However you provide within your family structure at that time is what matters.  Do all you can.  Have morals.  Be good.

Then you're a man.

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sap.

I'm a sap.  That's all there is to it.

Yesterday, while driving down the highway, my daughter in the backseat jibber-jabbering about God knows what, occasionally cracking herself up, a song comes on my computer-aided faux radio station.  I believe the station was "Jason Isbell" or "Chris Stapleton"--some good, genuine, honest country music that doesn't have glossed-up, shiny-faced douche bags singing it.  It was a slow song--couldn't even tell you who did it or what it was called.  But the combination of this particular melody along with the one thing in the world that I love more than anything, made me tear up.

A sap!

Let's back up.  "The one thing in the world that I love more than anything".  That's a bold statement.  A true statement.  Kind of.

When I was a kid, it was my family--parents and sister.  That's who I loved.  Of course, I still love them.  But when I met my wife, they obtained a different slot--a different category.  I still loved them, but not like I love my wife.  She's the love of my life.  She's number one.  Then along came my daughter.  Shit, man.  I didn't think I'd have to re-categorize my wife, but I do.  So, although I still love my immediate family, it's a different category than that of my wife...and even different-er now with my daughter.  And her category is now the prominent one.  Kind of.

Three categories of love.  Sounds like a Whitesnake song.

I realize I'm probably preaching to the choir here.  I'm a late bloomer of parenthood, so these feelings are brand new.  I've heard it all before.  Loving your child...whole new feeling...incredible journey...enjoy the moments...blah blah blah.  But until you experience it, it's all crap.  But when you do finally experience it, it's freaking unbelievable.

Ruby's laugh.  Ruby's smerk.  Ruby's strong will.  Ruby's disgusting eating habits.  Ruby's voice.  Ruby's hug.  It truly leaves me speechless.  All I can do is grin.  And tear up, apparently.

I don't know what the hell the three categories are called.  I just know that different people get dropped into different slots.  That's how it works in my brain.  It's fairly unexplainable, so I'll just be quiet now.

In summary:  My daughter's presence, plus a slow country song, make me a complete mess.  But that's okay.  It's called appreciation, gratefulness, and love.  And I'm okay with that.  I can't let her see me tear up, though.  She'll make fun of me.  She's got a lot of her mom in her, ya know.

ps.  this took me 7 minutes to write.  that's how obvious it is to me.

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