exhaustion -

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

Dear Luciana,

People think I’ve got this.

I shower. I shave. The emails I send at work still make sense if I write them before 10 a.m. Two years in and the single dad thing is supposedly grand.

It isn’t.

I’m skipping the grief part. Sick of talking about it.

I was backing out of the garage. You kept saying it from your car seat. “Door. Door. Daddy. Door.”

I was spacing out. The way I always do now. Your words washed over me like background music.

You were right. You’re almost three and you’re more put together than your father.

I backed out. Heard the crunch. The garage door caught the side of the car and bent the window frame.

What an unbelievably annoying thing.

This is what happens when you’re tired all the time.

So now I have to get the car fixed.

I tried normal places because I wanted to pay out of pocket. One guy said he’d have to replace the whole door. Another said he can’t do electric cars. The third said he didn’t do windows. He was afraid of breaking them.

I took it to the dealership willing to pay five billion dollars just to get a straight answer.

The dealership said they couldn’t fix it.

And it’s fine. The bent window frame isn’t dangerous to drive.

Unless it rains. Then it leaks all over you.

You would probably think that’s hilarious. Until Daddy needs to give you a bath.

This is a HUGE pain in the ass.

I have to take off work to drive to each place. I can’t do it after work because I’m watching you. I need help getting the car to each shop and dropping it off. That means dragging you along after daycare. Sitting in a car in traffic. Probably sitting in your own pee because I can’t change your diaper fast enough.

Also, the garage door battery died at the exact same time.

Beep. Every ten minutes. For over a day. Beep at 2 a.m. Beep at 2:10. Beep at 2:20.

It took me more than a day to figure out the beep was coming from the garage door. That’s how tired I am. An alarm went off in my own house and I couldn’t find it.

Apparently changing the battery takes five minutes. After an hour I’d touched two live wires and accomplished nothing. I paid someone to do it. It turned out all I had to do was open the compartment on the other side.

Today I went to the fifth body shop.

The guy bent the window back into shape in ten minutes. Did it for free.

I was so happy I gave him a hundred dollars in cash.

I can’t wear a sign that says I’M TIRED ALL THE TIME.

People think I’m fine. They only see the mask I wear in public.

Besitos,

Daddy