Dear Vanessa,
Before you died I thought I was pretty chill. Not the chilliest. I have road rage like everyone else.
But one time my boss screamed at me for something that wasn’t my fault. I just ate it. Stayed calm. Said nothing. The boss got fired. I got a raise. Staying calm was basically a career skill.
Turns out I have NEGATIVE chill when it comes to Luciana.
Some context. I had just gotten back from a two week work trip. And I hadn’t seen Luciana the whole time. And you know… or you don’t know… I don’t really know how this works. Let’s pretend you KNOW that Luciana hates talking on the phone. When Daddy travels he might as well be on Mars.
So I took her to the mall. Because YOU KNOW… go with me on this… that Luciana loves the mall. Just like you.
Three hours. She walked the entire time.
We were heading out to the parking lot when she stopped somewhat in the middle of Target and threw her arms up. The universal toddler signal.
“Daddy, I’m tired. Cawwy me pwease.”
Her sudden stop slightly inconvenienced a guy on his phone, speedwalking like his life depended on it. I had to grab her out of the way before he ran her over.
Look, I know toddlers who aren’t yours are annoying. All toddlers are annoying. But this dude barely broke stride. I was even about to apologize.
“I’m so…”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Just don’t do THAT!“
You and I got into this fight a hundred times. The words sound innocent. They weren’t. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. We’ve taught each other that one depending on who was crankier.
And yes, maybe I was a little sensitive. I hadn’t seen our daughter in two weeks. I’d been on my feet for three hours trying to be present while completely fried from working a billion hours the prior weeks. And you’re dead. You’re always dead. Let’s be honest. I’m always on edge.
But I don’t care. I don’t care one bit. The guy was incredibly rude.
“What do you mean, don’t do that?”
“JUST DON’T DO IT!”
“Don’t do it” can only mean two things. Either our three year old needs to be self aware enough not to ask her daddy to pick her up after walking for three hours straight. Or I’m not supposed to pick her up when she asks.
Either way. No bueno.
“She’s three years old, you stupid duck!”
No, I did not say duck.
“I SAID DON’T DO IT!”
“What am I supposed to do, NOT have a three year old?”
By then he was already waddling down the escalator like the stupid duck he is.
I shouldn’t have called a stranger a duck. Loudly. In public. In front of our daughter, who might start quacking at people because Daddy couldn’t hold his temper.
But what the actual duck?! Luciana is three. The dude was BARELY inconvenienced.
And I get it. Maybe calling him a duck was an overreaction.
However, maybe I should get some slack because you’re dead.
But even if you weren’t. Even if I was coming home from that trip to my not dead wife. To our two dogs, who live at your parents’ house because I can’t take care of them alone. To the second kid we don’t get to have anymore.
That guy is still a stupid duck.
And if it had been you? He’d be duck teriyaki right now. If you don’t want to be called a duck, maybe don’t act like one.
Quack quack.
Besitos,
Michael