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Potty Humor


Earlier this week I was sitting in the living room and heard Veronika calling me from her room for the second time to go to the bathroom. When I put her on the potty, she asked me to stay in the bathroom with her, so I slumped against the inside of the bathroom door, exhausted. After sitting for a bit and gazing at my belly, I had this kind of out-of-body experience where you're suddenly aware of how you look from someone else's perspective, in this case Veronika's (I have these moments occasionally and without warning. In the wrong moment, it can be quite disorienting. One time I was sitting in a meeting and suddenly imagined myself from several distant perspectives and it took great effort to hold it together). I realized that this body that has been carrying me around for twenty-six years, the one that I still think of as a big kid, that's what a father looks like to Veronika, the same way I looked at my dad at that age and saw "father." I felt an unexpectedly personal connection with her in that moment—a kinship of sorts, like we're just two people on the same journey and now she's taken my place and I've taken my dad's.

When I asked her to go for the third or fourth time, she knowingly said ok and put on a very serious face to indicate her effort. I couldn't help but to laugh, which got her laughing, so there we sat with the giggles for several minutes. In the midst of my laughing, I put my head back and saw in the skylight a reflection of a father and daughter, laughing like fools, one on the potty, in a small bathroom at 9:00 on a hot summer night. Out of nowhere, the thought occurred to me—"This is what my life is right now." And there it was, out of nowhere, a moment of complete serenity and bliss.

Happy birthday, baby girl. Thank you for bringing so much sunshine into my life for every day of the last three years.