Dear Mr. Hyde Tyler,

When you woke up this morning, you weren’t the happy and smiling boy that I so love to see before I head off to work each day. You wouldn’t smile at me, and you wouldn’t give me a hug or a kiss. I told you that I love you and you said, “no.”

And then, I made you cry. You see, we have a rule in the house. You are only allowed to have your pacifier at nap-time. When you wake up, it’s time to take the paci out. We make a game out of it by saying “POOEY PACI,” and then you spit the paci out. This morning, you came into our room at five in the morning, crying and asking for your paci. Mommy tried to comfort you, but you cried louder. So, she gave you a paci and you went back to your bed. When you woke up and came downstairs, you still had your paci. Mommy and I both told you that you couldn’t have the paci downstairs. You simply said , “no,” and wouldn’t take it out. So, I took it from you. That made you cry.

Soon, I accepted that my attempts at siphoning some affection from you were fruitless, and I told you that I was going to work. As I walked toward the door you bellowed, “NEEEEEEEEED DADDYYYYY!”

My heart split as I pulled the door closed behind me. I had to come back into the house a couple moments later, because I forgot a package I needed to bring with me. I gave your mommy another hug and, whispering in my ear, she implored me to try again with you. I did, and you rejected me once more. I felt a lump start to form in my throat, so I turned and left before the tears could begin to well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks.

Tyler, if you ever have a son or a daughter, I want you to read this letter again. You need to understand that, sometimes, there will be bad days. Heartbreakingly sad days. All-around, infuriatingly mad days. But, also understand, son, that your child still loves you and looks up to you, and learns so very much from you.

I do.

Later, when your child finishes waking up, or when you get home from work, it’ll all be water under the bridge to your little one. But you? You’ll still hold onto a sliver of those bruised emotions. You’ll wonder what level of hell you’re about to enter as you open the door. And when that child charges at you and jumps into your arms? Well, that next hug will amaze you, probably faze you, knock you down, pick you up, spin you around dizzy and daze you.

It did to me.

And when you think to yourself, Man, I really hope I’ve never put my parents through all this crap, read this letter again, you little turd.

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