Dada

Say "Dada"

“His first word was definitely ‘Mama.’ I wrote it down!”

“I don’t know, Amb. Pretty sure it was ‘Dada.’”

My husband and I go back and forth like this for some time. I smile and roll my eyes as he kisses my temple.

Then I turn my eyes back to our son.

“Say Mama. Say Mama.”

“No, buddy! Say Dada,” he interjects.

Our sweet boy. Big brown eyes and chubby cheeks stare up at us. He doesn’t gift either one of us with our titles, but he does give us a smile and a giggle, which is reward enough for our efforts tonight.

A great dad

We bring him into his nursery. I rock him back and forth while his dad reads him a storybook, The Wonky Donkey.

The story is utterly ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as the silly facial expressions and bizarre sounds my husband makes as he reads it.

Our son giggles. I smile. We both sing his lullabies and place him in his crib.

My husband stops and stares at the crib. He smiles before turning off the light and walking out.

He is a great dad.

PJ is getting older. He has become incredibly fond of his stuffed lamb, “Regular Baby.” (Not to be confused with Dirty Baby or Normal Baby.)

My husband places Baby inside his sweater and runs around the kitchen, clapping his hands and singing his newest made-up song, “Baby in the Shirt.”

PJ chases him around the kitchen, belly laughing as I watch on.

He is a great dad.

PJ likes to wrestle. He pushes his dad to the ground and yells, “I did it!” triumphantly.

My husband always lets him win.

He picks him up and throws him in the air.

He is a great dad.

“I can’t wait to throw a baseball with him.”

“I can’t wait to take him to his first Giants football game.”

“Give those flowers to Mommy, buddy.”

“PJ, that’s not nice. Say you’re sorry.”

“I can’t wait to wear matching jerseys with him.”

“Isn’t Mommy pretty?”

He is a great dad.

iPhone storage is full.

Ugh. I really need to stop taking so many selfies. Time to delete some photos.

Maybe I’ll start at the top this time.

I did what I was supposed to do when we separated. I deleted the evidence. The photos of us kissing, the videos of us dancing and laughing together. The screenshots of sweet texts you had sent me.

But still. There were some I couldn’t erase. Some memories that deserved to stay.

I still have every picture I ever took of you and him on my phone.

After all, you stopped being my husband, but you’ll always be PJ’s dad.

My favorite video is of PJ sitting in his high chair. He’s eating pancakes for dinner. He hears the front door open and yells excitedly, “It’s Dada!!!!”

I send it to you one day. I figure you should have it.

I think you said “Thanks,” but I can’t remember.

We don’t really talk anymore.

Telephone.

I heard you and PJ built a wishing well. I wish I could see a picture.

I heard you and PJ got into a fight. What happened?

I heard you and PJ are going on a trip. Where are you going?

I heard you and PJ played soccer! How did he do?

PJ said something funny today. I’d like to tell you about it.

PJ lost a tooth! Remember when he grew his first one? I want to talk to you about it. You're the only other person who was there. No one else would understand.

No answer.

I learn quickly to stop sending you messages about him.

I learn quickly to stop sending you pictures.

I learn quickly that I do not get the same access to you as I once had.

Sometimes the person doesn’t disappear. Just your access to them.

He’s still a father. Just not one I get to witness.

No access to you as my husband. No access to you as my friend. No access to the father I once knew.

Nothing.

He is a great dad?

I don’t know.

I don’t get to see that version of him.

I don’t get to see any version of him anymore.

I still remember the first time I saw my husband hold PJ.

I was so proud of him.

I was so proud of myself for giving him a child.

I was so excited to see him as a dad. I knew he was going to be amazing at it.

I couldn’t wait to watch the man I fell in love with take on a brand-new role. One we had both been dreaming of for so long.

Even when we separated, I thought I wouldn’t miss it.

We will sit next to each other on the bleachers and cheer him on at all his games.

Undoubtedly, you will teach him guitar one day, and we will sing with him. Together. Right?

You will teach him how to be respectful of women. How to treat his mom.

We will trick-or-treat together and laugh at whatever costume he’s decided on this year. I’ll give you the M&M’s, and you’ll give me the Reese’s Pieces.

Oh.

I wonder what kind of father you are.

I wonder if you’re strict.

I wonder if you’re silly like your ultimate inspiration, Bluey’s dad.

Maybe you’re both.

I wonder what bedtime is like.

Do you guys eat dinner at the table?

Do you have a nickname for him?

Do you still sing “Baby in the Shirt”?

Isn’t he funny?

Isn’t he sweet?

Do you ever think it’s hard? Being a parent?

Do you ever wonder if you’re doing enough?

Are you ever scared you’re getting it wrong?

Do you ever feel tired?

I do. Sometimes I wish I could tell you that.

Do you still have pictures of me and him on your phone?

I’d like them if you do.

But I’m too scared to ask, so I guess I’ll never know.

And there is a grief in that.

Quiet. Strange. Hard to explain.

To not know who you are now in the role my body gave you.

Hey.

Say “Amber."