Dear Luciana,
In the book I made a whole thing about doing your hair. Like it was a sign from heaven that I could do a Dutch braid. My book is very dramatic.
Today you got a bow. I didn’t braid it. Braiding is exhausting.
Pink dress. Pink bow.
By the way, pink is no longer your favorite color. Purple is. Stop having preferences. Mommy’s favorite color was pink and now she’s pissed.
Don’t worry. You can pick the next outfit. Day one goes to Mommy. Quit whining. I say yes to almost everything you ask.
You held one of those signs. First day of school. It asked what you love most. I wrote Mommy.
I don’t know why I’m trying to get brownie points from dead Mommy. But it’s kind of romantic. Maybe I should be writing the Hallmark movies I make fun of. I’m kind of good at it.
At the door I wished you cried. I wanted the Hallmark moment. Peak sap. It wasn’t.
“Bye, Daddy.”
A wave. The one time I wanted histrionics and you gave me a wave.
I got you potty trained just in time. They don’t let you in with diapers. You still peed your pants. Twice. I packed extra clothes and figured they’d last a month. They lasted one day.
Your preschool is bilingual and very expensive. We wouldn’t have needed that if Mommy was alive. Mommy was the Spanish. Now I pay a school to be the Spanish. Eight to five, because I have to pay for before and after care too.
I’m not checking their work. You better be better than me in Spanish. I get one hour a day. You get nine. I don’t care that you’re three. You better be beating me soon, or I’m doing absolutely nothing and taking a nap. I’m very tired. All the time.
Every day.
Forever.
The emergency pickup form has half my family, half of Mommy’s, and the old daycare lady. That’s not me being thorough. I travel for work, sometimes two weeks at a time. Somebody on that list is getting a call.
On the drive home I gave you the speech. Don’t be scared to go potty at school. If you have an accident, it’s okay. Daddy is here to take care of you.
You were quiet in the back. I thought you were listening.
You were pooping.
You took the whole speech as permission. At least you waited until we got to the car. Very kind of you to wait.
“I pooped.”
Yes, sweetie. I know.
When we got home, a neighbor I hadn’t seen all summer came over to say hi. Before I had a chance to change you.
I know her name because I did a really good job remembering it. I know her son’s name because he started crying and she said it. Her daughter is four. Since you’re three, hers is the most important name to remember, and the only one I don’t know.
We talked for twenty minutes. I don’t remember one thing we said. You sat on my arm in poop pants the whole time.
Sorry. She has kids your age and I didn’t want to be the weird dad on the block.
Instead I was the weird dad on the block, because all I had to say was “my kid pooped” and walk away. Her kid was already crying. She would have understood.
Your daddy is weird.
No grief triggers today. Not until I started writing this. That’s self-inflicted. Not your fault. Don’t feel bad.
Growing older is your fault. You should feel bad about that.
Besitos,
Daddy