I just killed an intruder. And as he was soaking to death, burning alive in a pool of industrial strength grease remover, I tipped over the box of Ziploc bags in which he'd mistakenly taken refuge, and dumped his writhing insect body onto my kitchen floor. There we sat, he and I, while I watched that dirty little cockroach bastard give in to death.

This is not my most endearing quality.

* * *

Trying to bend a toddler to your will is a total head fuck. Because she's too small to fight me, Little-E has fine-tuned her whiney voice to a pitch so inconceivably grating that it disrupts natural order -- warping time and space to isolate us in a vacuum of auditory despair. And when that doesn't work, she gets mopey and calls for her mother.

For a guy in my situation, ever-so-slightly fearful that he'll forever be a second-string parent, this stings -- like a reminder that whenever I fuck up, there's always the real parent for E to go home to. And while she doesn't know why, and I work my ass off not to let her see it, E knows it gets me, and has no problem using this to her advantage.

So. When I drove away from E and her mother earlier this week, and heard my little manipulator screaming, "DADDY! I WANT MY DAAAADDY!" I felt like I might just be a real parent after all.

I know, that sounds bad.

* * *

This week I saw my daughter every day. This is so small, and simple, and straightforward and overwhelming that I'm not sure it's really happening. The prospect of doing this every day, until it's normal, is astounding.

Every afternoon, as I drive away after dropping her off, I take a deep breath, and remind myself that I'm not going to wake up.

tags: Cockroach, Dad Stuff
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