My Daughter Has Never Seen Me Hungover

She's two.

She doesn't know what a hangover looks like.

Not because I hid it. Not because I powered through. Because it just never happened.

She's never seen me on the couch at 11am with the curtains closed.

Never seen me skip breakfast because my stomach couldn't handle it.

Never seen me reach for my phone with one eye open, trying to piece together how the night ended.

She doesn't have that version of me.

And I don't know if she ever will.

It's not a big thing

I didn't make a speech about it.

Didn't set a goal.

Didn't circle a date on the calendar.

I just noticed, one day, that she'd been alive for over a year and she had never once woken up to a father who wasn't fully there.

Not hangover-groggy or irritable. Not faking it through a Saturday morning.

Just there. Coffee in hand. Often already up before she yells "dadaaaaaa".

That was the first time I thought about it. And it hit me quietly.

What she sees instead

Saturday morning. I'm on the floor.

Blocks. Books. Singing the same song with her for god knows how many times (probably too many!).

I'm not recovering. I'm not waiting for the Advil to kick in. I'm not secretly counting the hours until nap time so I can lie down.

I'm just here.

Sunday. We go out early. A trip to the park, walking the dog. Nothing impressive.

But I'm present for it. Not beside her. With her.

That's the difference nobody sees from the outside. The mornings look normal. They are normal.

They just didn't used to be.

She'll probably never know

That's the part that gets me.

She'll never know what she's not seeing. She has no frame of reference. No "before." No comparison.

For her, this is just what dad is.

Available. Alert. Consistent.

She doesn't know that's a choice. She doesn't know it's unusual. She doesn't know there's a version of this where I'd be half-absent on a Saturday, short-tempered by noon, napping by two.

She just thinks this is how it works.

And Iet's keep it that way.

SP.