I Did Something for Myself Today

And I Plan to Do More of It: for Me, For Us, For You

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I write letters to my 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, here are some good places to start.

• "Wait—Who Taught My Son the 'F' Word?"

• Good dad, decent husband, bad friend

• Am I a Good Dad, or is the Bar Just Really Low?

2 Years Old

Dear Myles,

I did something for myself today.

The past two weeks have been hard. You were sick, and whatever you had, you graciously passed it on to your mother. Parenting is hard, but being a sick parent is even harder. The show does not stop—it must go on. People need to be fed, jobs must be worked, and pull-ups need to be changed. In these past two weeks, I’ve often thought about how hard it must be for single parents, especially single mothers like my mother, your grandmother. How was she able to raise me and my brother alone?

While you finally got better, your mother took a turn for the worse, wheezing, in pain, and sneezing—everything at once. And you are at the age where you could care less. Balls need to be caught, your attention needs to be attended to, and your mother’s love, sick or not, is demanded. I handled the pickups and drop-offs, and to give her extra rest every day after school, we went to the library, the park, or soccer practice.

But Tuesday, my meeting ended early. I had about 45 minutes to spare, and instead of picking you up early, I took the local way home. It’s the route where I could ride with both windows down and play the music I usually can’t with a toddler in the back. I drove the way I would never drive because the highway is faster. When you have a child, time always feels more precious because there is always so little time for anything else.

But it just so happens, as I am driving with the windows down and the music playing, and the toddler seat is empty, that I pass the ice cream shop we usually go to together as a family. I immediately tell myself, “I don’t need ice cream right now.” Too often, it’s too easy to convince myself that because I don’t need it, I should not have it. But this time, I tell myself I want it.

I make a U-turn, park, and walk in. I walk into that ice cream shop for the first time, maybe ever, without your mother and without you clamoring at the seams of my pants. It’s still work hours, so the shop is empty—no kids in sight. It feels the same way it does after we put you down for the night. I feel my body just sink into itself, the permission to relax I call it.

We are regulars here, and I do not recognize the scooper—she must be new, I figured. I walk up and order my seasonal favorite, peach-apple cardamom. To this day, even if you showed me a picture of cardamom, I could not tell you anything about it, but the person who decided to pair it with peaches and put it in ice cream deserves the Nobel Peace Prize.

When the scooper asks cone or cup, I think for a moment and gladly say cone, because today, today we do not have to share. When she emerges from down below with my scoops, I cannot believe this is a split scoop. She is not only new, she is beautifully heavy-handed, and I… I am in love.

I sit outside where we usually sit as a family, at a table with four chairs, one for each of us, and the bag we always carry your essentials: snacks, pull-ups, water, and wipes. But today, it’s just me. I take up space, put my feet up, and savor every bit of the peachy, milky goodness, and whatever this cardamom thing is. Ice cream tastes a lot better when you do not have to share with a toddler whose spoon is digging at your cup and who won’t stop saying “more” after you just gave him more. At what age do toddlers learn the word savor? That day, I realized I remembered it myself.

I sit back and let the flavors do their work in my mouth. I eat the ice cream slowly, as if I have nowhere to go because truthfully, for those 45 minutes, it felt like a vacation.

And while the ice cream does its work, I ask myself: why don't I do this more often? Why don't I take more time for myself? After working full time, studying, being a husband, and being a father, it often feels like only the dregs are left. Sometimes it feels like asking for more time for me means more work for your mother. And truthfully, I know she feels the same.

I watch us—fully present, fully tired—how neither of us want to miss a moment, but also don't want the other to feel too burdened. And it's not at all that you are a burden, but there is this thing called fatigue that, as a two-year-old, you are not yet aware of, that has its way with us.

Some people often ask, “Well, what about the grandparents, and this person, and that person?” They don't know how much privilege it is to have grandparents who are here, alive, and present. We have none of those sorts. And while there are people here who I know love us, there is nothing like having your own mother and father—here, alive, and present. Most times we don’t want advice, we want the impossible, the what’s no longer here, the people who birthed us who are not here to be with us, to hold us, to support us, to allow us to take ice cream dates without a clamoring child tugging at our cones and digging his wooden spoon into our artisan ice cream flavors. I am meandering now.

I know fully we can’t pour from empty cups, but cups get empty and the show does not stop—it must go on. People need to be fed, jobs must be worked, and pull-ups need to be changed. But that day, that Tuesday felt different. Maybe taking time for me looks like taking the long way to your daycare after work, leaving early and getting ice cream flavors I can barely pronounce. Maybe taking up space for myself doesn’t need to mean I’m being selfish.

I spend so much time trying to prove to everyone—you, your mother, the planet, myself—that as long as everyone else is good, I’m good. Like this ice cream, I told myself I didn’t need it, that I don’t need any time just for me. But I realize that’s not true. We both need time: time for ourselves, time for each other, and time without you.

After I finished, I hopped in the car and continued driving the local way to your daycare with the windows down. I felt a sense of joy and ease, and I looked forward to seeing your smile when I picked you up. And when I walk in and finally see your face, I’m reminded why I need to take care of myself, eat ice cream alone, and play the music I want. The more I take care of myself and love myself, the more capacity I have to love those around me—not in fatigue, but in the love that you deserve.

I hope you know, I love you and there is nothing you can do about it.

Love,

Daddy

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Let me know your thoughts:

1. When was the last time you did something just for yourself?

2. Do you ever feel guilty about taking time for yourself? Why or why not?

3. What’s your “ice cream moment”—a small joy you savor without sharing?

4. How’s your heart?

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