My Daddy's Name is Gary.

            The last Wednesday of October was bright and sunny.  There was just enough chill in the air to foretell the end of the hot, steamy, South Florida Summer.   My two-and-a-half-year-old, Lily and I, chatted happily on our way to story time at the library.  I was so thankful to be self-employed so we could share this weekday morning.  It was almost like being one of those stay-at-home moms I so envied. 

            There were about 30 preschoolers at story time.  Miss Jo drew a crowd with her energetic story telling.  Miss Jo has child-like enthusiasm and uses physical comedy to tell her tales, combined with the compassion and patience necessary for dealing with children.  We all sat in a large circle, criss-cross, applesauce, with as much attention as preschoolers are able to muster.  Lily and I sat very close to Miss Jo on her left side.

            Miss Jo began, “This is the story of Sarah, who went to work with her Daddy one day.  Sarah’s daddy’s name is Gary.” 

            “My Daddy’s name is Gary,” a cute little red-head volunteered.

            “My Daddy’s name is Scott.”  Another girl chimed in.

            “My Daddy’s name is Bill and he drives a truck,” reported a tow-headed girl with pig tails.

 

            “I have an idea,” said Miss Jo excitedly, “Let’s go around the room and everyone can tell us their Daddy’s name.”  She started on the right.

            “My Daddy’s name is Steven, but people call him Steve.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Mark and my Uncle’s name is John.”

            Lily doesn’t know her father’s name.  My husband left seven months before, when Lily was one.  I am pretty sure he is not coming back.

            “My Daddy’s name is Brian and he works in a restaurant.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Tony and my grandpa’s name is Tony too.”

            Right after he left when Lily and I would pull up in the driveway at the end of the work day she would look for his car and say, “Daddy’s not here.”

            “No.”  I affirmed.  After a short time, she stopped looking.  We had not discussed him for months.

            “My Daddy’s name is John and he works for the newspaper.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Brad and he sells ‘surance.”

            Is this really happening?  What to do?  What to do? 

            “My Daddy’s name is Mike and he likes to play with me.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Dan and he likes to go fishing.”

            My heart is beating fast.  I can’t breathe correctly.

            “My Daddy’s name is Angel and he is from Peru.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Craig and he is from Boston.”

            Lily’s father’s name is ethnic and difficult to pronounce.  I don’t have time to teach it to her. 

            “My Daddy’s name is Wayne and he likes to drink beer.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Joe and I have a baby brother.”

            I think I am going to throw up or pass out.

    

            “My Daddy’s name is Bob and you can say it frontwards or backwards and it’s the same name, Bob.  Hey, did you know that God backwards is dog?”  The child laughs and laughs.  Miss Jo acknowledges how strange and funny that is. 

            “My Daddy’s name is Ray.”

            My daughter is going to be a failure because she doesn’t know her father’s name.

            “My Daddy’s name is Tom and he can fix anything.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Chris.”

            Maybe time will be up before they get to us?  I wish Tom was here to fix this. 

            “My Daddy’s name is Ryan.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Pat, and we have a dog named Sport.”

            I want the floor to open and swallow us.  I want to get up off the floor and run out of the room.  I can’t breathe. 

            “My Daddy’s name is Don.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Ivan.  He speaks Spanish.”

            My daughter does not know her father’s name.  This is a basic thing, and she doesn’t know it.  I am a failure.  This is all my fault.

            “My Daddy’s name is Neil.”

            “My Daddy’s name is Ben.  His real name is Benjamin, but people call him Ben.”

            I am suffocating.  They get to Lily.  I think I am going to die.  She sits happily next to me, listening to all the children talking.  She has no clue she is missing anything.  All eyes are on her as the crowd awaits, with baited breath, her telling the name she doesn’t know.  The pause is too long, Miss Jo asks her, “What is your daddy’s name.”  Lily is two and a half years old.  She does not know embarrassment.  She stares at Miss Jo blankly.

            My eyes meet Jo’s, “She doesn’t know her father’s name.”  I tell her.

            Miss Jo doesn’t miss a beat.  She tells me, “That’s alright because she has a mother who loves her so much.”  I uncross the criss cross, and leave the room to go to the bathroom to cry.  Another mother follows to comfort me.  I tell her my husband left seven months ago, and I thought he would come back, but he’s not coming back.  I cry for my daughter’s fatherlessness, and she comforts me.  God bless that woman, wherever she is.

 

            My daughter was never upset she didn’t know her father’s name, but she was plenty upset watching me cry,  Within 48 hours Lily could say, and spell, her father’s name.  

            The next Wednesday we were back at story time.  It was the Wednesday after the 2000 election which the Supreme Court later decided George W. Bush won.  That morning the election had no winner. 

            When we walked into story time all eyes were on us.  I greeted the sainted comforter, along with the other mothers.  I smiled and told them “I don’t know what I’m more upset about today.  The fact that my husband left, or the election results.”  Everyone laughed.  All was well, life goes on.