How do Single Parents Poop in Peace?

If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!

I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:

• How I Met Your Mother

• 10 Things I Love about Your Mother

• Balm for Wounds: Apologizing in Advance

• Tell them Where You’re From

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After sharing an emotionally heavy piece last week, and given the arguably rough week we've had in this country, I wanted to write Myles about something light.

Dear Myles,

Times like these remind me how grateful I am for your mother.

She went out, and I have no one to tag in. You’ve just eaten and are fresh from a nap, so I have no cards to play to hold your attention. But I need to use the bathroom, the kind of use-the-bathroom where I need some time to work things out of my system, the kind of time that you don’t really have patience for. I think about turning on the TV and letting you zombie out for a little. But then my mind starts to race. What if you cry, or get hurt, or try to leave... or worse? What will I tell your mother? “I’m sorry, I really had to take a...”

uppercut from your mother

I’m leaning on my side, right cheek to be exact. I can’t really sit on the couch straight. You think I’m trying to play a game, but I really just don’t want to make a mess. You know, an adult-sized diaper doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now. I’ve never been more jealous of you. How I wish I could just shit right now and go about my life like it’s nothing, knowing full well someone will take care of it all, even if it makes its way up my back.

I decide to take you to the smaller of our two bathrooms, so there’s not much room for you to crawl away if you start feeling curious. Or, better yet, maybe the smell will finally encourage you to walk. I wait until the last possible moment—the moment where I can’t hold it, can’t rationalize—and run like the floor is ablaze, you in one arm. I grab your standing table on the way inside the bathroom, sit you down, and place it between you and me to serve as a barricade and keep you busy.

The standing table holds your attention for a whole 20 seconds before you start crawling around this makeshift barricade. And because I’m focused more on pushing and you’re too quick, when I finally notice, it’s too late. My pants are between my legs on the ground, underwear suspended by my knees, and here you are, looking at me square in the face with those beautiful round eyes, wondering what’s that sound hitting the water so aggressively.

I love how forgiving you are, acting like you can’t smell a thing. I wish you would at least wince a little, cover your nose, or even cry. I just want some semblance of revenge for you to feel what it's like when I change your diapers, especially when you make it difficult—squirming, kicking, fighting—or worse, reaching down and grabbing some of your own poop, making it even messier than it needs to be. But no, your game face is stronger than a deciding free throw in Game 7 of the NBA Finals. I know it smells in here; my own nose hairs are starting to curl.

I flush. The easy part is done. We made it here, and the brown eagles have landed. But now I need to wipe. To save you the imagery, I grab, I wipe, I flush. I don’t examine though, too worried that you’ll make a swipe at the tissue slathered in feces. Yes, I risk possible unclean cheeks. 

I grab more tissue, I wipe, I flush. But now you’re getting curious, a face that says, “What are you hiding back there?”'—the same look when you know there’s food behind my back and I’m not trying to share. My son, this is not food, well it was once, but I assure you, you don’t want it in this condition. But your curiosity has possessed you now, and you are trying to reach between my legs. I close them tightly to block your path, and now you try to reach to the side. I can’t push you back because I’m afraid you will fall, but I do my best to evade all of your attempts, like Neo fighting the agents in the Matrix, blocking every punch.

"Forget it," I say to myself. I flush one last time, and even though my rear could use an extra wipe, I quickly wash my hands, dry them off,  pick you up, and pray hard for a wedgie not to find its place.

I can’t wait until your mother gets home, to tell her I love her, and pray and check for skid marks.

I love you, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Love,

Daddy

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These letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go toward Myles' college savings. A paid subscription also gives you access to all letters I’ve written to Myles, including these letters I write every other week or so, where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.

If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support Myles’ college plan, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.

And if you are on Substack, please restack this letter and recommend it so I can share this love with the world.

Let me know your thoughts:

1. How do single parents poop in peace?

2. I love this poop prank parents did to their kids. Got any hilarious 💩 stories to share? Whether it's your own or something funny your kids did.

3. Any potty training tips?

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Looking for more writing from Black, Global Indigenous, and People of Color on Substack? Earlier this week Earlier this week, the Locked In community published its first issue of Unlocked | BIPOC Reads . This issue was beautifully curated by my friends

Zefan

and edited by

Shivani Kumar

.

Issue 01 | Unlocked

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Want more of Myles’ Letters?

These are Subscriber’s favorites:

• Myles met his Grandfather in Brooklyn, NY

• Read about Our first Father’s Day.

• A video about beautiful backgrounds: Tell Them Where You're From.

• Read about My Wife’s Love Affair - It’s exactly what you don’t think

• Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?

• Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love