My daughter and I are finishing our “I Lava You” floats while waiting in line to ride the Magic Carpets at Disney World. We’re halfway through the line when her little voice filters through over the music.
“I don’t think I want to get married or have a boyfriend,” she says matter-of-factly.
I wonder if she’s thinking about our last visit to Magic Kingdom. Where, specifically, at this exact spot in line, she’d whined a little too long and a little too loud. Her dad scooped her up, hopped the barricades, and stormed toward the exit, swearing to never come back.
I don’t say it. I want to see where she takes things on her own. She’s quiet for a few more turns around the stanchions.
“Remember last time we were here?”
“I do,” I say, keeping my face and tone neutral.
“I like it when it’s just us girls,” she adds.
Me too. But I don’t say it.
“Traveling is just easier with fewer people,” I say instead.
That’s true, of course. When there are just the two of us, there are fewer people weighing in on money, meal times, and must-dos. Wherever we go, I’m happy to do just about anything, and she wants to do just about everything. When we travel “just us girls,” it’s basically a “yes day.” She’s had so many wins that even when I must occasionally decline, my little Momo accepts her fate and moves on.
But it’s more than that.
Late in the summer, Daddy finally assembles Momo’s new bike, which has been sitting in the box for weeks. While carefully walking through the tight corners of our bungalow and out the back door, she runs over her own foot and yelps.
“Did you break it already?!” her dad snaps.
I’ll learn a little later that he was especially concerned it would break because it was missing a bolt. (I found it in the box.) In the moment, Momo doesn’t answer because her dad is still fuming, beginning to lecture her after he jumped to the wrong conclusion. When I interject to explain, he throws up his hands and walks away.
“I can’t be part of this,” he says. “Why does everything have to be so stressful with her?”
Momo is staring at me, eyes wide. She got over rolling over her foot faster than her dad did. She tries to tell him she’s not mad at him. That she didn’t break her bike. That she loves her bike. Somehow this is still a “guilt trip.” I wave him off, suggest he take a nap before work, and help her to get the bike outside. She rides up and down the sidewalk for an hour. Then, later (after fixing the bolt), I take her to an empty parking lot so she can ride some more. She rides until she’s pink in the face, cackling and content. I send her dad pictures.
“Why?” she asks.
I literally don’t even know anymore.
“Because he loves you, he built the bike, and he’ll want to see you on it.”
He does love her. He loves both of us. He just operates on an entirely different frequency. He’s the most forgetful and unorganized Type A person that I’ve ever met. He’s high-strung in a way I cannot fathom… and I color-code my calendar.
It was cute a decade ago, and it’s easy to ignore when it doesn’t involve our daughter. But when he enters meltdown mode and Momo is around, I feel both our bodies tense. Both of his girls have to mentally remind ourselves that his issues are not our problem. And isn’t that a crazy sort of mantra for a 7-year-old?
While vacationing is easier with just two people, it seems so is life.
For a while, Momo and I ran on one schedule, and her dad on another. We only crossed paths in the evenings, which every parent knows are simpler anyway. But even then we had regular blips.
Like Daddy deciding to start a tickle war at three minutes until bedtime, then getting exasperated when his overly tired kid goes headfirst into the coffee table. Or when he looks away from his phone to see Momo leaving crumbs everywhere as she peels off her crust. She and I already know that after dinner she will clean up the mess with my handheld vacuum. Daddy is mad she’s making the mess in the first place. He yells. She stops eating for the night.
Our family is currently down to one car, so we’re sharing our mornings, too. Momo is slow to eat breakfast, so we usually take it on the go. Daddy gets annoyed because her mouth is full and she doesn’t answer his questions. Later, her dad starts to spiral about the cost to get our second car fixed. Momo sits in the backseat, listening intently. These are not the things a 7-year-old should worry about before school.
“This is stressing me out, too. But can we talk about it in five minutes?” I ask.
“Sure. I’ll just buck up,” he snaps, intentionally missing the point.
Momo goes to school in the inner-city. Morning drop-off is an absolute nightmare. I stop at the curb, several spaces away from the gated entrance. I remind her to go straight to the gate and into school. No stopping to chat until she’s inside. She walks slowly… because she’s 7. And the leaves are changing. We can see her. We aren’t in a rush.
“Get INSIDE,” Daddy bellows out the window.
She immediately scurries inside. I will spend the rest of the day worrying about how that moment will steer her hours in school. She’s already having a hard time adjusting to her new teacher. Getting her to bed on Sunday nights is particularly tearful. This is not a good way to start the week.
Maybe I spoil her. Maybe I’m overly empathetic. Maybe my backbone bends like a willow branch. Maybe I replaced my big bestie (him) with a little bestie (her). Maybe I, too, should have never gotten married or had a boyfriend. Things really are more fun with just us girls. But I don’t think this is a “me problem.”
Her dad can be fun. He is fun. That’s why Momo exists. We have amazing memories with him, like getting ice cream at our local whippy dip or wandering through our nearby park. Dada’s contagious excitement for (some) things is exactly why she’s tried pawpaws, Doritos, and blue ice cream. He can make me snort-laugh sometimes, usually when we’re making fun of our neighbor’s music. And there’s no one I’d rather sit with at a football game.
Still, there’s a tension and bitterness we can never fully shake from him. I’ve gently suggested he talk to a therapist many times. (His parents really did a number on him.) A lack of availability or funds always seems to stand in the way, though. So, when it comes time to choose between solo parenting for a week or navigating Orlando International Airport with Momo’s dad, I will always err on the side of parenting without my partner.
Because, just like Momo, I like it when it’s just us girls.
