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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:
After taking a two-month break from writing, Myles, I’m back. The world feels like a mess right now, so it seems fitting that my first letter back is about... well, poop.
I hope it brings a smile to your face today—because January felt like a year.
Dear Myles,
I am hard headed; it is not something I am proud of, but it is also something I have no control over. I think that also makes me stubborn. Ever since I met your mother, she has always told me she is always right—and since I met her almost nine years ago, my hard, stubborn head has been trying to prove her wrong. But after the night we just had, I conceded. It’s true. She is always right, and it took a whole lot of shit to happen for me to admit it—literally.
We have been potty training—nothing hardcore, but you have been showing interest. The first time you finally pooped in the potty, your mother wasn’t home; it was just me and you. It was one of those evenings when everything felt like it was going wrong—tantrum after tantrum, meltdown after meltdown. By the time your mother got home, if she asked how things went, I was ready to lie through my teeth. I was already exhausted from work and didn’t want her to feel any guilt for taking time for self-care.
But all of a sudden, in the midst of a meltdown, tantrum, and crying—the holy trinity of a parent’s nightmare—you pointed to your diaper and said, “Poop.” I scooped you up in my arms and ran, hurdling over every toy in the living room like my name was Saquon Barkley.
I took your pants and diaper off like they were on fire, sat you on the toilet, and immediately started reading the potty book and singing the potty song like my life depended on it. I watched you shift and squirm, and then—voilà. I never thought the sound of feces hitting water so aggressively could make me smile and shout like I was in a Baptist church.
I felt like the proudest dad on Earth, especially since your mother wasn’t home. Still, with your derriere unwiped, we FaceTimed her to share the good news, and I yelled like I had just won the lottery. I was so proud I even took a picture of the toilet. (Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the sight of the spoils.)
But that night still ended in shit—just not in the toilet.
We just had dinner, and your mother says we need to be consistent with this potty thing. “After dinner, he needs to go to the pot,” she’s been saying. So that’s what we do—all three of us squeezed into your tiny bathroom, reading your potty book, singing your potty song. Your mother sings soprano, I offer a sad excuse for a tenor, but you? You are not singing at all. You are upset. You do not feel like sitting. You want to play.
You start crying and batting those beautiful eyes at me, screaming, “Up! Up! Up!” I start litigating on your behalf. “Listen, I don’t think he’s going to go,” I tell your mother.
“No, he needs to sit for a while,” she says, adding something about bringing a timer next time so we can at least get five minutes in.
I double down. “Just look at him—he’s not going to go now.”
She is not happy about it, but she gives in. “Okay, fine. At least put him in a diaper.”
“He’s fine. Let him free-ball. He’ll let us know when it’s time to go.”
I turn my back and head to the kitchen to clean up.
“Okay,” she says. “Well, if he pees or poops, you’re going to have to find it. And I hope you don’t walk in it.”
I pay her no mind. You are my client, after all, and I believe in you—foolishly.
I start cleaning the dishes and, at the same time, call your uncle. About five minutes go by, and tell your uncle hold on because I realize I don’t hear anything. I don’t hear your mother, and I don’t hear you. No ball bouncing, no toys making noise, not even feet hitting the floor.
Every parent knows silence is the most dangerous sound when you have a toddler.
I walk into the living room, and we lock eyes. You are standing there, hands held up in the air the way someone holds them when they know they have been caught red handed. Except your hands are not red—they are green.
I walk over without saying a word, praying my eyes are lying, and bring your hands to my nose—but my nose tells me I should have trusted my eyes.
I check your diaper-less booty—the same booty your mother told me should have had a diaper on—and there it is. Poop. Smeared on the back of your shirt. On the floor. You are still looking at me, batting those beautiful eyes again. The same eyes that got me here. The same eyes that convinced me not to listen to her. Now, they are filling with tears.
And then I see it.
In all its disgusting glory, surrounded by blocks on the rug—mean and green, peppered with quinoa.
Maya! I yell. You were right. He did it.
“He did what?” she yells back, already knowing but doesn’t want to believe.
I hear her feet hitting the floor—fast.
When she storms through the living room doorway and sees the mean, green poop, peppered with quinoa, I swear I see smoke rising from her locks. She is furious. She doesn't even want to look at us. "Give him a bath. I’ll take care of the poop."
You are crying. Your mother is fuming. “I knew it. Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?” she keeps saying. And I am sad.
Sad that poop is everywhere.
Sad that my hard head was wrong again.
Sad that she was right.
Sad that I should have listened.
We finish up bath time, and she comes in, still tired, still frustrated. But she kneels down to your level and tells you how upset she is, how poop belongs in the potty. I love these moments the most—when her anger, always rooted in love, softens, and she talks to you like we are all the same age.
I go back to cleaning the kitchen while she puts you to bed. And when I am done, I find her lying down, exhausted, spent.
All I can say is, “You were right.”
I am done being hard headed. I hate that it took nine years. I hate that it took our living room smelling like poop all night, a soiled rug, and your mother being sad to finally understand—being right does not matter when we are all supposed to be on the same team.
I love you both and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Love,
Daddy
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 where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.
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Appreciation Time: Thank you Kimitee and
, for recently becoming a paid subscriber. I appreciate you pouring into my family.Let me know your thoughts:
What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever had to clean up as a parent? (Poop stories welcome!)
Tell me about a time when you thought you were right just to end up being wrong.
For the parents out there: what’s your go-to strategy for potty training?
How do you keep your sense of humor when things feel like they’re falling apart?
If you’re new here, just say hey, hi hello!
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
These are Subscriber’s favorites:
Here’s another one about poop, but this time it’s about me!
Myles pooped in the toilet!
Yeah!
That is a big deal!
(Now to the part you knew was coming.)
Flowers. Flowers and a kitchen timer, preferably a goofy one.
Words are lovely. Actions are better.
(Your wife may not be a flower person. In that case, make it something she buys for herself as a treat.)
The timer says you heard her.
Still, Myles used the potty!
Go Myles! Glad to see you back in my inbox. Wishing you luck on the potty training journey! It's pretty great on the other side but you do indeed have to go through s*it.