Hard Lessons
"Daddy, I need help."
My daughter shuffles out of the bathroom,
panties around her ankles,
tucks her chin to her neck
at the sight of Daddy's raised eyebrow.
She knows better.
She is too young to know the shame of nakedness,
yet old enough to learn privacy and discretion.
I have tried to teach her,
but the words ring nonsense in her ears.
Her nose wrinkles,
"There's a poop stuck in my bum, and it won't come out."
These are her words for 'constipation.'
She knows I will help her,
sit her back on the toilet,
hold her hand,
walk her through the steps of our familiar dance:
"lean left;
lean right;
hands on hips;
now push with your belly;
push with your back;
push with your ears..."
"No, Daddy, that's silly!"
And, if we are patient,
sometimes Daddy solves her problem
and sometimes he can't,
but she knows I will always try.
Each time I walk her through these awkward steps
she listens, dutifully,
never reminding me that she is a big girl,
that she can do it just as well without me.
"I wiped my bottom over there, but not my bottom in the front."
She has not yet learned the word "vagina."
We are in no rush to teach this,
having lived through the uncomfortable frequency
with which 'nipple' is now employed
in daily conversation.
She will learn soon enough.
She yearns for language,
so desires to explain her world,
to learn the rules and ways of adulthood
much faster than I am prepared to teach her.
Still, I try,
each day gifting her with independence
one word, one story at a time,
each lesson tearing lightly at my gut.
I know what this will mean for us.
She has no idea.
The more I teach her,
the more she will tell me,
"No, Daddy. I can do it myself."
"Go away, Daddy. I need my privacy."
These are her words for 'independence,'
for 'distance,' for 'estrangement.'
There are too few years to pass on to her
every rule she will need to know,
to tel her the cautionary tales
of when Daddy got it wrong,
to prepare her for the worst disasters,
to give her the words to explain everything.
No matter what I say now,
she will never quite be ready for her first day of school,
first love, first fight,
first drink, or second, or last.
She will never know the consequences of her actions properly
from her father's tired stories
of life gone awry.
She will have to make the mistakes on her own,
take her lumps,
decide whether to let her parents know it ever happened,
whether to admit it to herself.
She is three yeas old, and already I miss her.
I will take advantage of these days
when daddy can fix everything,
when I am still ten feet tall.
Too soon, my lap will be an awkward place for her to sit.
Her bedroom door will say,
"No boys allowed."
And then will remain open, decor unchanged for years
so we can peer in and miss our girl when she moves away.
She will call, on occasion
or text, when she needs money.
I will miss her, like only a Daddy can,
wait for her to call,
hope that it's only because she misses us.
I will worry,
constantly,
dreading that I have not prepared her well enough,
praying that she will never find herself shuffling out of a strange bathroom
knowing the shame of nakedness,
lacking the words for 'self-loathing' and 'regret,'
that she'll know well enough to protect herself,
to not drop her guard,
leave her panties around her ankles,
but if she does,
to never question in that moment
whether it is safe to call home,
that she will always be my sweet little girl.
I will always come to her rescue,
hold her hand,
walk her through those awkward steps.
"Daddy, I need help."
posted by Christopher at 10:31 AM
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