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Dad Diary

 We're told the truth will set us free, but I don't think that always works, with parenting.


My child's doctor gives me a solemn look. "While Joshie's system adjusts to the antibiotic, you really want to stick with *binding* foods. You want to lay off the vegetables. Sorry to say. As much as I love veggies for a little boy...."


I nod, as if this is a dramatic adjustment. As if a vegetable has (successfully) crossed paths with my son--at any point--in the past three years. As if my son doesn't live off Lactaid, Chex cereal, and an occasional meatball. I wonder: Where are the babies who gobble up steamed cauliflower every night? I pretend that I know these babies; yes, sure, I have these babies in my own home.


My husband takes Josh to the pediatric dentist, who says Josh has really *mastered* his teeth-brushing routine. Marc and I are so shocked, we can't speak. Here is what the brushing routine really looks like. One of us gives the brush to our son, who shrieks, extends ten claws, and runs away from the first floor. Toothpaste spills onto tiles; small gobs are smeared across the width of a bannister. Sometimes, Josh holds his toothbrush while he sleeps--but the brush rarely enters his mouth. That's where we are.


I have a long list of things I'm not doing. I was meant to caress Joshie's limbs with a surgical brush; this was going to unlock new worlds of discovery for my child. Not happening. There was a daily "sensory diet"--with running, pushing sacks of rice in a little cart, enjoying the application of "baby lotion" to the wrists, the forearms. Also, everyone was to have a nightly conversation about "food textures": The adults would take a green bean, note the "crispness" and "crunchiness," gently place any "rejected" items onto a sparkling "No Thank You" tray. Fuck that shit.


Can you every forgive me?

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