Wet Underwear and Mornings That Dry Your Patience
Some Mornings Are Hard, Others Harder
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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.
Dear Myles,
Some mornings are hard; other mornings are harder. You would think it wasn’t the same dance we’ve been doing every day for the past year: going to the bathroom, washing your face, brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, and getting ready for school. But every morning is an adventure within itself. Some mornings are hard; other mornings are harder.
You are about 90 percent potty trained. I’m holding the other 10 percent because any more and I might jinx it. We’ve mastered the tactical wees: the ones before we leave the house, the ones before we leave school, and the ones in between. You’re wearing big boy underwear now, “just like daddies,” you say. And this past week, we got you a new pack. They came in all different colors and all different designs, just like Daddy’s. And the ones you chose to wear were blue with sharks all over them. You loved them. And I’m sure you loved them even more because we let you pick them out yourself. That was yesterday. But the day after, you woke up and wanted to wear them again.
Reasoning with a two-year-old about anything is hard. But trying to explain why it is unsanitary to wear the same underwear two days in a row is like trying to explain taxes to a goldfish. But we try—we negotiate, we legalese, we try to rationalize with you, and you remain unmoved. I look at your mom, and she has that look on her face that says it is time to wrestle the mini-alligator: prepare-for-tantrum mode. But I have an idea, my last one in the tank, and if it works, there won’t be a need for a wrestling match. “Go w-e-t it,” I tell her. I spell it out just to make sure you don’t catch on.
Your mother moves quickly out of your line of sight, behind you to where the hamper is, and fishes out yesterday’s underwear, the ones with blue sharks all over them, balling them in her fist while I make sure your eyes are fixed on me. You are near tears when I hear your mother drenching the underwear under water, while I explain to you that we had to wash it and that it is drying. Yes, my plan was to lie. Just when I hear the faucet turn off, I ask if you want to see it. You tell me yes.
We walk to the bathroom, and there is the underwear hanging on the curtain rod, sopping wet and cold. I point to it, and even though you see it is dripping wet, I hear my plan start to unravel when you say the words, “I want it.” I give it to you anyway because surely the understanding of a two-year-old cannot be this primitive. Surely you wouldn’t want to wear them.
But then you ask me to put them on.
And I look at your mother with a face that says I am all out of plans. Her arms are crossed, and she says, “Let him.” And we do.
I help you put on the blue, soaking wet underwear with sharks on them, and I’m half expecting a tantrum because you’ll want to keep them on. I’m ready to go full 3D Dudley Boyz tag-team mode to get you into dry ones so we can get you to school. When we finally wriggle them up your waist, I make this gross face to try to telepathically communicate with you that soppy, wet pull-ups are not for school. And somehow, it works. You concede. You want them off. I thank God for deliverance. Praise him.
You pick another pair—this one still all blue, but no sharks. “Just like the ocean!” you say. And just when we think we’re home free, you decide today is the day, this day, you want to learn how to put them on yourself. It takes the patience of the saints to watch you, only two years old, whose coordination with hands and feet has not caught up to his mind as of yet. Your mother sits down and explains how to put them on. Each time she tries to help, you want to start over. There’s stubbornness, and then there’s hard-headed. You, my son, could win a headbutt contest against a jawbreaker.
I watch and look at the time and realize this is usually the moment we’re out the door. Teeth aren’t brushed, breakfast hasn’t been eaten, and here we are trying to show you how one foot goes in one hole and one in the other. Eventually, after minutes that feel like hours, you get it. I could’ve praised dace right there, because God, won’t he do it, I think to myself.
You run to the kitchen to eat your breakfast, oatmeal and eggs, which I guess must be cold by now. Your mother and I look at each other with tired eyes, but smiling. I tell her it won’t always be like this. Soon he won’t need us this way. I tell myself I’m grateful that some mornings are hard, but other mornings are harder. And what a blessing and privilege to have jobs where every morning can be an adventure.
At least for now.
Love,
Daddy
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Let me know your thoughts:
Tell me about a time you told a white lie to get a kid to do what you wanted them to do.
Tell me about a moment a child showed just how stubborn—and underdeveloped—the prefrontal lobe can be.
Have you ever felt both exhausted and completely blessed at the same time?
What’s the weirdest thing your kid has ever refused to wear?
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
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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
That's it, the hard, the frustration, but you got through it by prioritizing your son over the time. It won't always be hard like this, but when love matters more than being on time, everyone wins. Well done!
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