My daughter turned one last week.

Being somewhat dewy to the atmospheres of fatherhood you mature daily with relatively similar concepts.

 Some points exist which can be referred to ;

• Time management is often referred to so much in our humdrum lives at work. But never have I thought that it was needed to understand that from dusk until dawn their are rituals I find myself doing. 
• Chatting to other new parents and trying to gain an understanding or bell curve of when they may have finally snapped in a time line. 
• Explaining that the growth of my 1 year old is in directly related to the scale of my own external persona and that the wearing of 3's at her age is nothing to be alarmed about. 

Then the questions. The endless amount of questions you ask yourself, people, fathers, mothers, internet forums, strangers in a pub.... they never stop.

Why is it that I can stand over a cot for an eon looking at peaceful bliss?
Why do I dream of her older than what she really is now?
Why can't she make some sounds but do others?
Why does she love to play with my ear before she goes to sleep?
Why does she wake up in the middle of the night? If she has nightmares - then what in her life creates these nightmares?
Why did I feel like the worst person on earth when I see her fall for the first time and hurt herself? Why is it hard sometimes, and easy other times?
Why don't I have enough time with her - when it's consumed by work or life?
Why do I call her Boom-Boom?
Why does she love me when she's only known me for 1 year of her life?
Why does a cardboard box bring her more enjoyment then the actual toy in it?

I tend to sit and watch her rather than watch television, waiting for her to stare back at me. I tend to pull a face, smile or mimic a ridiculous voice (which I've found myself doing in public more than often). The smile in return, the tilt of her head to the side, a giggle or the "Da Da Da" I hear continuously at 5am each morning grants a glow. This glow I now know is what only fathers have to their children. The glow is something possibly bottled into a photo left on your work table or inside the wallet. Possibly spoken about to another colleague who has no children and you're boring them to death with another Guess What story. Possibly recreated from its initial evoke once remembered.

I'm starting to understand. I'm loving my own parents even more because of this enlightenment.

One question is clear to me now though, and it does require the need to answer, and clearly does not need excusing as much as it balances itself with ensuring there is sufficient prompting.

Why can't I fail her?