Parenting After Loss

The Exorcism Bath

/ Daddy

Dear Luciana,

You tell me you want to use the potty. “Daddy, I need go potty.”

“No you don’t. You’re such a liar.”

Okay, I don’t actually call you a liar. But you totally are.

You sit on the Elsa potty seat and just chill. You hold it. Sometimes you ask to brush your teeth, or drink some water. You ask if you can raspberry my tummy. On the toilet.

I was really hoping you were going to grow up to be cool like Mommy, not weird like Daddy. You’re still cute though.

After ten or so minutes I let you get in the tub. Then you unleash hell.

Twice now.

Your face turned bright red. Eyes wide. Body locked. Complete focus I have never seen. I’m pretty sure your head was about to spin 360 degrees. It was an exorcism. I kept waiting for the priest.

The first time was a regular poop. Annoying. Doable. Drain the tub, bag the situation, bleach what needs bleaching, keep moving.

The second time was diarrhea.

You screamed. Real screaming. I asked why. “I’m scawed, Daddy.” I told you there was nothing to be scared of. I wasn’t scared. You climbed out and hugged me. Covered in poop water. I hugged you back. Covered in poop water.

Then I looked at the tub.

There is a specific room in hell reserved for the dad who has to clean diarrhea poop water out of a tub. The poop does not stay in one place. The poop becomes the water. The water becomes the poop. Everything floating becomes part of the event. Your foam letters, the ones we use to spell your name, were sponges. POOP SPONGES.

Mommy would have lost her shit if she saw what I had to clean up.

And no, she would not have thought I did a good job. I guarantee she would have made me throw the whole tub out and buy a new one. Bath toys in the garbage. Maybe the bathmat too. Possibly the bathroom.

After I finished, I took a bath in straight bleach.

If you ever wanted a little brother, sweetie, I’m sorry. Pretty sure the bleach took care of that.

You start potty training tomorrow…

Who am I kidding. No you don’t. You drive the bus. I’m the passenger holding a bag full of poop toys.

Besitos,

Daddy

One Ear at a Time

/ Daddy

Dear Vanessa,

I’m always going to remember when Luciana got her ears pierced for a very unusual reason. Her right ear was pierced before you died, and the left ear was pierced afterward.

We went at 9 months because if we waited any longer the doctor said you should wait until 4 years or they will pull at the earring. Nobody in my family got their ears pierced that young, but I knew everyone in your family did. So even if I felt weird about it I wasn’t going to say anything.

After the first time it was done I almost fainted. We all said it looked perfect. But I noticed the left ear was a centimeter off.

The doctor was confident that if we take the earring out and wait 3 weeks the ear will heal. The ear did heal. I did not.

Going back there with one earring and no mommy was so surreal. I can’t even imagine what the doctor was thinking. Part of the reason the earring was off the first time was because I didn’t hold her down hard enough and she was very squirmy.

I bear hugged her this time. The snap of the earring machine went. Luciana cried for maybe 10 seconds. Your mother and I cried for the whole car ride home.

You were so meticulous cleaning her ear. There was no way she was going to get an infection. It was one of the first realizations that I no longer have you to help me with these types of things. It was all on me.

And it’s still all on me.

Besitos,

Michael

The Angriest I’ve Been Since Mommy Died

/ Daddy

Dear Luciana,

We were at the indoor playground. You were playing with another kid, maybe five years old. I wanted you to have space to play without me hovering. Five minutes in, the kid hit you across the face. On purpose.

The kid said it was an accident. It wasn’t. I was watching. She lied. I got gaslit by a five year old.

You screamed. Not the whiny cry. The real one. I looked for the parents. Nobody. The place was packed and I couldn’t find them. I wanted to yell at that kid. I wanted to find her parents and tell them what I thought of them. I’ve never been that angry. Even in those first weeks after Mommy died when everything was rage and nothing and rage again.

I picked you up. You were still crying. Her parents never showed up. What am I supposed to do in that situation? Yell at some kid that should know better? I made her apologize. Mommy would have gone ballistic until she found the parents. Mommy probably wouldn’t have let you play that far away in the first place. I still haven’t figured out the balance between giving you independence and making sure you don’t get beat up by a bigger kid.

Besitos,

Daddy