You've abandoned your child.

You've ruined everything.

If you insist on sticking around, you'll most likely screw up, which we'll take as proof that you suck. In every way.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Guilt.

* * *

Shortly after Edan was born, she and I had a straightforward relationship. I'd see her for a couple hours every day, hold her, let her squirm around on the floor, watch for spit-up, and hope she did something interesting. Her life involved either sleeping or sucking on boobs, and her mom and I were still slipping arsenic in each other's coffee, leaving nearly no time for father/daughter get-a-ways.

But it was during one of our precious few moments alone – changing an exploding poop diaper in the bathroom of Baby Gap – I thought, for the first time, that maybe my little girl knew something was wrong, and hated me for it.

I imagine when any new parent hears their child freak out, they're rocked by the auditory carnage such a tiny being could unleash on those who had given her life. For me, it was part of a case the world was mounting to prove I wasn't really a father. A real dad could make his daughter understand that everything would be ok – their innate bond capable of transcending language, poop, and department store changing tables. I was just an unfortunate afterthought – worth a couple weekends and month and child support.

And so it goes. You don't know what you're doing, digging through a diaper bag with one hand – trying not to gag from the smell – pinning a squirming, screaming, red-faced bundle of joy to the changing table with your free arm while helplessly whispering "shhhh."

The two high school girls who'd made doey eyes at Edan when we walked in had heard her screaming, and now looked like they'd been hit by a truck. As I walked out, clutching a whimpering infant my arms, I wanted to say: "THAT'S RIGHT. DON'T YOU DARE HAVE SEX. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU HAVE BABIES."

But over time, you hate yourself less and less, and before you know it, you've re-arranged your life so you can see your kid every afternoon. You're standing in line at grocery store – just an everyday dad running errands with his daughter – while she dances around behind you, occupying herself while you check out. The kid is barely out of reach when she shoves a banana between her legs and starts shouting, demanding that you "look, look!" You hope the unsightly display isn't purposeful, because then your darling, pigtailed little angel would have recognized, understood, and capitalized on how uncomfortable you (and everyone who heard her shouting) are with the now shockingly inappropriate fruit protruding from beneath her skirt.

"Edan!" you say in your sternest voice (as your brain screams: look away!) "Give me that banana, we need to pay for it."

"No, daddy! It's my horsey," she triumphantly declares, riding the yellow, pseudo-phallus around the frozen foods isle – the teenage employees diving out of her path, the smell of fear in the air as they stare at you, slack-jawed, silently swearing that they will lop off their privates before even contemplating such an unthinkable task as parenthood.

For fun, I'm temped to scream: "THAT'S RIGHT. DON'T YOU DARE HAVE SEX. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU HAVE BABIES."

Although truth be told, I don't feel that way anymore.

The self-doubt, heartache and second-guessing have dulled. The seemingly insurmountable insistence that I'd fail has faded. Every day I know my daughter a little better, and I can't imagine a more fulfilling role than that of a father.

But when there's never a right answer, you're gasping for air against the weight on your chest, and what everyone tells you is supposed to be beautiful gets soiled with pressure and pain, it's easy to listen when the way out sounds so simple – when it's practically expected of you.

* * *

I understand why men leave.

But I'm glad I didn't.