Dear Luciana,

Last year we went to Disney. I gave it a one out of ten. There’s a whole chapter about it in the book. And even with the guilt of bitching about a trip to Disney, I look back at it and I still hate it.

This year we went to the Dominican Republic. A solid three point five out of ten.

Progress.

Part of that was the resort. We never had to leave. And part of it is I think I’m actually a better dad now. By better I mean I’m no longer overwhelmed every time you fart.

I’m resisting the urge to complain too much because I know exactly how I sound when I do.

Wah wah wah. Poor sad daddy. Complaining that he got to go on a free vacation…

Again.

Well. Two weeks before this free vacation I was traveling for work, putting in a vomit inducing amount of hours. I got home from the Dominican Republic today. Tomorrow I fly out to Seattle to work another vomit inducing amount of hours for two more weeks.

So spending an entire week with you was amazing. Kind of like eating a poop sandwich with chocolate in the middle.

Except even the chocolate had poop in it. Because you know what would have been more fun?

Going to the pool here. Going to the mall here. Playing with your toys here.

Because EVERYTHING, and I mean EVERYTHING we did there other than a couple of things, we could have done here. Without getting on a plane. Without changing your routine. Without draining my already dead battery.

One of those couple of things happened right outside dinner. The resort had a cover band, and you decided to flirt with the lead singer. And it worked. He waved back at you in the middle of a song.

Then you grabbed your butt. Which is how you announce you need the potty.

(Side note for future you, reading this. I just realized how much poop is on this blog. I’m not going to stop. But for the record: I’m usually not this obsessed).

So I dragged you away from your one true love and back to the toilet. Where you did not poop. Then I dragged you back out to the cover band so you could keep flirting.

Yes. It was very cute. The cutest thing that happened all week.

It’s also a memory you will never keep. You’re three. I’m not going to pretend you’ll remember flirting with a lead singer in the Dominican Republic any more than you’d remember a Tuesday at the pool here. Ask me again when you’re five.

Is this a weird thing to complain about? Am I so deep in my bubble that this counts as a legitimate grievance? Because I would 100 percent rather not go. And I don’t think I’m crazy for believing I can have more fun with you by not going.

I will concede that watching you have fun with your cousins is a big reason to go. I’ll concede that.

And nothing else. Not even the lead singer.

One day I’ll stop being a grinch and this blog will get more rainbows. Probably right after your first ballet recital.

But until then.

Besitos,

Daddy