Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, well, sort of.

A couple evenings ago while floating around in the pool beating the Arizona heat, I casually mentioned to my adult daughter that I had acknowledged how I was proud of her in a recent post. Immediately she was excited with the revelation that her father was blogging (maybe this was shocking since I am rather slow and old). Then she wanted to know my blog's name and my tagname. "Should I or shouldn't I?" flashed across my screen; I knew it would be like opening Pandora's box. Since I inherently have nothing to hide and I didn't want to tell her not to go there, I proceeded with the requested blog information. Now what to do--let her read my post of 8 randomly ragged facts, first of which is my admission to gayness, or do I tell her and my son-in-law the bare naked truth, face to face.


So, it was kind of like when she was 10 and I had to admit the truth that Santa was really an expression of love from her parents, give or take a few analogies to Jesus. Well, she took it like a big girl, but I could tell it was as hard for her as it was for me to disclose. We both cried. This was a coming out soon not to be forgotten, yet somewhat sweet in that now she could begin to put some of the pieces together as to why her parents are the way the are. Suddenly it begins to validate some of her mother's insecurities. My loyal companion wife has quietly endured for years the brunt of all my daughters' critical appraisal for her legion anxieties without a legitimate defense. And I, that uniquely liberal creative guy that was way more sensitive than most other guys and dads was just found out, but somehow I hope it made gut sense.


Even though I'm now suddenly "gecko" to my daughter, I'm still me, the same person who has trudged up and down the path of faith and fatigue, still pointed in the right direction. Has anything changed? Yes, our perspective, but not the actual facts of life, which are that I love you, wonderful daughter of mine.