A Letter to My Baby Daddy
on Father's Day
First of all, I just want to point out that you got to sleep in until 9:30 today. 9 FUCKING 30. Like a fucking ROLLING STONE in IBIZA on CHRISTMAS MORNING.
But, gentle reminder, think about how much shit you usually get done by 9:30 every morning. You know, making the coffee, unloading the dishwasher, making the coffee, loading the dishwasher, and did I mention the coffee? Yeah, all your stuff? Don't know if you noticed when you sat down to your plate of piping hot scrambled eggs and your steaming mug of joe, buuuuuuut... I did that today. Ohmygod but don't get me wrong, I was seriously like so happy to make the coffee this morning.
Just, you know. Tomorrow's Monday, aka Not Father's Day, so... I am totes looking forward to that.
Do you remember when coffee became your thing? I do.
Chicken was a newborn. I was off my fucking rocker, between the hormone cocktail, the identity crisis, and the sleep deprivation. I have no idea what you were, aside from standing nearby with an alarmed look on your face.
I remember when I figured out how to combat both the claustrophobic repetitiveness of life with a newborn, and the crippling fear that the gross tonnage of my life had just shrunk down to exactly 8 pounds and 12 ounces.
I made a to-do list for the week that included everything - EVERYTHING - I might conceivably do in a week: unload the dishes, cook a meal, take a walk, call a friend, take a shower, read a book to the baby, watch a movie, dance.
You watched me create this list, just so at the end of every day I could cross something off a list, even if it was just "Eat lunch." CHECK.
You asked, "What can I do?" You couldn't do anything on my list, not because you couldn't perform the tasks, but because part of making the list was taking the responsibility for performing the tasks that made up this life that was supposed to be mine. You can't send your husband to try on espadrilles for you. You can't ask him to get your hair cut. When it comes to suiting up for your own damn life, it's all you.
But I could see that you wanted to do more. You already came home from work, took the baby, sent me out the door to yoga, cooked half the dinners, did all the dishes, and rose for your son if he woke before 2 am. You wanted more.
I said, "You can make the coffee."
And you did. Every morning. And you still do. Except this morning, when I ground the beans, boiled the water, plunged the press, and poured your cup.
When I was a kid and we'd stay over at my grandparents' house, I'd rise in the morning to sit on a stool at the counter, and watch my Granddad make coffee in the white Coffeemate percolator. He'd pour us both bowls of Rice Chex, and slice bananas into the bowls with the curved edge of his spoon, saying, "this way, we won't dirty a knife." The rich, slightly charred smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. We'd eat our cereal, and when the coffeemaker stopped purr-gurgling he'd pour a mug, add some cream, and climb the wide carpeted stairs to his bedroom. I have an image of my grandmother sitting up on one elbow in bed, holding the sheet against her bare chest with one hand, and sipping from the steaming mug with the other.
I don't thank you enough for rising every morning earlier than you need to so that I can start my day with hot coffee. Conventional wisdom says that a girl marries her father. In my case, my dad learned from the best. Every morning you say I love you. Every morning I drink it down. If I still say thank you, it's reflexive. But today, I want to say thank you the way people do when they thank a barista who gives them a free cookie. Ohmygosh. THANK YOU. That was so nice of you. Really.
Thank you. I owe you four years' worth of coffee. But perhaps four years of clean underwear can be applied to my balance? We'll talk.
And, again, just a quick reminder, I made the coffee this morning, soooooo...
PS - Sorry about what happened at the movie theater.
PPS - I had no idea what would happen when I asked you to stand with Chicken and Buster in front of the Finding Dory poster.
PPPS - I thought, you know, hey photo op!
PPPPS - You have to believe me. I had no idea Chicken would bite your penis.
PPPPPS - Sorry for laughing for so long. But seriously, you try saying, "Chicken, penises are not for biting," while keeping a straight face. Especially while your soulmate is doing the Bullseye Dance while still holding a man-sized toddler.
PPPPPPS - Also sorry I didn't offer to take Buster. I was just laughing too hard. But dude, SOLID. Only a hero takes a nip to the tip and doesn't drop the baby.
PPPPPPPS - Photo op:
|just in case you've ever wondered|
i wonder what it would look like
if you had a picture of your family all framed up
your kid bit your husband's dick?
the answer is
I'm calling off Month of Flash.
I noticed that under the severe restriction of 300-word economy, my shit was not funny. And I know you guys want funny. I'm sure there are people who can be funny in 300 words or less - in fact, I created two of them. But I'm not in that club.
For example, I wrote a 300-word version of "The Morningstar Farms Incident," and it SUCKED. It was all plot, no jokes. That joke that started, "Real quick, let's go on a journey..."? Remember that one? I really liked that joke! 300-word version? NO JOURNEY JOKE. It was enough to make me... (wait for it...) STOP BELIEVIN.
Shhhhhh... you're welcome.
So I'm keeping the Month of Blog but dumping the Month of Flash. You're welcome again.