Time a four-letter word. Looks so simple. Sounds so simple. Yet, how many Excuses do you make to spend quality time with your child?
I did not spend a lot of physical time with my father growing up. By the time I was eighteen he died during my midterms in my first semester of college. There was no opportunity to say, ?goodbye?.
The last time I spoke with him I was at school begging the Administration to use their phone to call New York. I was in California and had no money to use the payphone to call the hospital long distance. ?My father is dying in New York?. I pleaded crying, ?Let me use the phone?.
That would be my last conversation with him standing in front of a group of strangers while I listened to my father crying begging ?God? to release him from his pain. It was as if lightening struck me. My father had always been an Atheist; unusual at the time for a Black man but conformity was not his nature.
As a young girl my father, Stacy Seppinni made sure that every visit with me was focused on me. I quite often sat on his lap until he would request for me to show him my latest dance moves. I played with his glasses, watch and hands. He allowed me to be close to him. He made sure that my time with him was spent without the interruption of my three older brothers. Our time was quality time.
While in prison (from the time I was two until just before my seventh birthday) he wrote me letters, called, wrote me a poem for each one of my Birthdays and sent gifts other prisoners made just for me? a portrait of me, hand carved jewelry boxes with my name and leather goods were just a few of the items.
We spent our time fishing on Sunday?s when I was 7-8 years old. He?d make me Cream of Wheat (my favorite at the time) or Oatmeal at 4 AM in morning. This was the time he used to sit and read the paper and talk to me about the happenings at my school. On weekends when he was home we went to the Metropolitan Museum in New York. We?d stop in front of his favorite paintings discussing the artist. He enjoyed taking me to the park. He?d sit and read the paper while watching me play. I especially enjoyed when he took me to Central Park to see Patty the Monkey.
He loved to read so I was lucky to be around all of his books, which I kept for years because they were apart of him. Most of all he held my hand wherever we went and took great pride in having a little girl. I loved the way he smelled so any chance of cuddling next to him when lied down (when sober) was heaven as he put his arm around me as he watched T.V. Often he would fall asleep during the program gently I would open his eyes and announce ?Poppy your a sleep!?. ?No, Baby? he would say, ?I?m just resting my eyes?.
When my mother moved my brothers and I to California my father decided to stay in New York. I spent years not living with my father but, to me he was there everyday. It was because we spoke almost every day on the phone. Throughout my life he took every collect call from me especially when I cried because I missed him or simply needed to tell someone how I really felt about my world?other kids, the move to California, my interests and so forth.
My father was a terrible man domestic violence, murder, gambling, drug addiction, extreme violent episodes with my brothers and so on?
Now as an adult I realize he gave me one of the greatest gifts a child can receive he created quality of time with me. He was fully engaged in creating a parent ? child intimacy and trust between us. He took the time to share the best part of him. He did this throughout his years of absence through his endless conversations with me ending all with ?I love you with all my heart?. Our quality of time became part of the foundation of how I love and chose to be loved.
If we can all learn in times of tragedy as in the loss of twenty children in Sandy, Connecticut it is not only to remember to hug your child but, to spend quality time, listen well and express your love. Guilt and regret are harder to live with than the process of grief and loss. Guilt and regret lead to a lifetime of self-hatred, feelings of failure and a refusal to forgive oneself.
It?s been many years since my father past and yet, I think of him daily. I still speak to him daily in my mind. He visits me in my dreams when I accomplish something I?m truly passionate about letting me know he is still with me and therefore I am never alone. My father continues to live on in my heart.
As I tell him all the time ?Dad, Pop please behave yourself in hell, stop womanizing, put down the bottle, and be nice to others. You need to behave so that you can meet me in heaven when it?s my time go?.
Posted by Dr. Leslie Seppinni on December 16, 2012
Source: http://excusefree.com/blog/?p=598
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