I looked into Sofia Grace's beautiful eyes and smiled.She was six weeks old. 

She didn't smile back. In fact, she didn't do anything except stare back at me. 

It then occurred to me that a smile meant nothing to her. And while I sensed, or at least hoped, that she could feel my love, I also had the awareness that she was still unconditioned by the world around her. She was pristine.

It was then that I started to realize that she, and several years later, her sister Bryana, would teach me far more than I could ever offer either of them. 

With their minds still unclouded and free of worldly influences, they still had access to something bigger, something infinite and eternal ... something divine.

I wasn't sure what that something was exactly, but I knew I wanted more of it in my life. 

It was spring, and there was a carnival in town. It was one of those small weekend carnivals with a dozen rides and a few booths, but it was two-year-old Sofia Grace's first real taste of a merry-go-round. 

The following day, Monday, she wanted to go back and see the horsies. I tried to explain to her that the fair had moved on to another town, but she would have none of it. Eventually she wore me down with her persistent statements of "Let's check, Daddy" and "Maybe the horsies are still there."

I decided to drive by the place where the carnival had been while on my way to pick up the babysitter, so she could actually see the vacant lot and be satisfied the horsies were no longer there.

We drove by the lot, now empty, and my daughter asked, "Where did they go?" I tried to explain, once again, that they had moved on to another town, so that other children would also get the chance to go on the rides.

Maria and I hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in a week. If it wasn't one girl, it was the other.

I had been asleep maybe two hours when the crying started again. Maria was exhausted. The last thing my body wanted to do was to be dragged out of bed again. There are times, and this was one of them, when I resent being a father --- even feel some anger towards my daughters.

Was it love that got me out of bed? Was it obligation? Or was it simply that the discomfort of the crying was greater than the desire to fall back to sleep? I'm not sure, but as I got up, I honestly didn't feel very loving. 

I picked up my daughter and attempted to comfort her, unsure, as I often am, what exactly I should do to ease her pain. Hold her, rock her, feed her or check her diaper?

I was holding Bryana in my arms when the phone rang upstairs. 

Remembering that I was expecting an important call, I rushed up the steps. Near the top of the stairwell I slipped, and Bryana rolled out of my arms, falling on to the carpet.

My child cried. I was mortified. The phone continued to ring --- then stopped. 

How could I make a phone call more important than the safety of my daughter? Fearful that I had caused serious injury to her, I nearly crucified myself, loathing myself for my stupidity.

Fortunately, she fell on a cushioned carpet and only from a foot off the ground. After I held and rocked her for awhile, she seemed fine. 

Yesterday, Sofia Grace had her teddy bear snatched away by her younger sister. 

When Bryana wouldn't give it back, in great upset Sofia Grace yelled, "I'm not going to love teddy bears anymore!" 

In that moment I saw how I, too, have shut down my heart and limited what I want or dream for so as to avoid the hurt and disappointment of having it snatched away.

What does it take, once we've been hurt, to open our heart again? What does it take, once we've reached for the stars and fallen to earth, to dream again?

There are days when I'm not overjoyed with my life and when I look at the responsibilities of being a father as a burden. 

There are days when the fatigue of multiple sleepless nights seems larger than my love for my daughters, and all I can seem to think about is how good it would feel to close my eyes and rest my weary body.

There are days when I've lost my patience for childish games and long for a stimulating adult conversation or a measurable professional outcome that tells me if I succeeded or failed. 

There are days when it feels like my primary motive is one of survival ... to endure until I can find some relief by falling into bed and praying the girls will sleep long enough for me to get some rest.