My daughter and my partner left town yesterday. I was lukewarm about them leaving, not wanting to be separated from the baby but also looking forward to some time alone.
A fear of detachment got the best of me momentarily. I sat in the apartment, oddly quiet, and stared at the walls. I was really hitting my dad stride, getting up with her at five, feeding her, putting her on the potty. Will she feel as comfortable with me when she returns?
My ruminations lasted for some time, so much so that I forgot to clean her toilet out. Perhaps it wasn’t ignorance that prevented me from dumping her poo; perhaps it was a subconscious act done in order to hang onto a piece of her.
When I was in college, I wrote a short story about a guy that keeps a bag of dog shit that came from his ex-girlfriend’s dog. It was his way of keeping his ex in his life. The story didn’t get published.
Do I have a shit thing?