Last night my Dad came to see me, he sat on the sofa and cuddled and played with my little girl like any doting Grandad would. Then I woke up and the realisation that it was just a dream hit me hard like a cold slap across the face.
Just over a year on I’m still struggling with coping with life post Dad. I think the May reason being that my daughter is now in the world and I’m trying to get my head around the fact that my dad isn’t here to see her or me be a mummy to her. I wish he could be here to watch me and Baby P grow as mother and daughter together and I wish to see him feed her marmalade on toast, swing her around and teach her to take her first few steps.
I’ve struggled a bit lately, missing him, adjusting to being a new mum (due to some slight concerns over my daughter and her growth) and had a particular rough day yesterday. It was as if he knew this and came to visit me in my dream, like I needed to see him to settle my feelings, only thing is that it made me more teary.
He was just sat there on our sofa, the one he’d never seen because he passed away before we moved in. There he was though, bold as brass, blowing raspberries at little Miss P in her bouncer, tickling her feet and cooing over her like she’s a princess. He was wearing his signature stonewashed jeans and shoes with the backs folded down as he was to lazy to put them on properly. He wore a hideous purple and grey striped rugby style collared top and over that an even more hideous, well worn red fleeced jumper, both having seen better days. He smiled with pride at my little girl, showing his tobacco stained teeth, picked her up as she cried and passed her to me for feeding time as he left the room to smoke a roll up and put the kettle on. Then that was it, I woke up feeling as though that had happened that very day, as though it was real and his loss was a horrible nightmare. Then as fast as I woke, reality hit and I laid in bed shedding a few tears for the Poppa M that isn’t here to be Grandad.
My sister-in-law suggested I write down every dream I have of him and then read them to P when she’s bigger. I will and I may even write down my day dreams, my wishes and fantasies of the things I’d imagined him doing for her. I can visualise his first visit to her in hospital, carefully holding her like she may break at anytime yet longing to squeeze her tight in a rush of love and pride. I know he’d have talked to her and realised in the big gummy beaming smile she now shows on a regular basis and that he’d have loved her angelic face laid sleeping in her basket.
So I write this as I look at my beauty, laid sleeping blissfully like an angel, ready to share with her what her Poppa M would’ve been like with her, had he been here to love her like we all do.
I miss you Dad, come visit me in my dreams again soon please.