I pulled into the driveway with my younger brother in the passenger seat.
She was already there. Our daughter sat in the car seat at the front door, waiting.
No wave. No words. Just cold air and handoff protocol.
I picked her up and brought her inside.
Set her down on the play mat and let her freestyle — arms flailing, toys scattered around.
My brother dropped onto the couch while I posted up nearby, watching her recalibrate.
She started getting cranky.
I nodded at my brother to hold her while I prepped the formula — quick, controlled.
She grabbed the bottle with one hand. That was new.
She drained it with precision. Small win.
My aunt wanted a glimpse, so I fired up FaceTime.
She got her fix — some coos, some sleepy smiles — then we ended the call.
Right after that, it hit.
I had to take a shit.
Filed the scenario mentally:
What’s the solo dad protocol when nature calls and no one's around?
Still working on that one.
I felt 10 lbs lighter. It was time for lunch.
I washed her hands, strapped on the rubber bib, and locked her into the high chair.
Heated up the leftover Instant Pot fajita chicken bowl I made earlier in the week.
Mashed it down with a fork. Something about that felt grounded.
Served it to her slowly. Spoon only. No airplane bullshit. Just clean movement and eye contact.
Then I remembered something I’d read — around eleven months, it’s good to let them play with their food. Sensory input. Texture.
So I handed her the bowl and let her explore.
She dove in. Face messy. Hands sticky. Bowl cleared.
Mission accomplished.
She started fading soon after.
I dropped the shutters, dimmed the room, and laid her in the travel crib.
Eased the door shut like I was diffusing a bomb.
I finally ate. Heated the same bowl for myself and joined my brother out on the balcony.
The breeze was light. No talk. Just sun and silence. A moment to reboot.
Around 2, I heard her cry.
I went in, picked her up, soothed her by rubbing her back. Let her regroup on the play mat with my brother while I got her next snack ready.
Banana blueberry yogurt pouch.
This time I squeezed it into a bowl — my mom’s request.
She said the direct-to-mouth squeeze looked uncouth.
Fine. This looked more civilized.
After that, I strapped her into the travel stroller.
Still haven’t figured out how to tighten the shoulder straps properly, but she was in. Stable enough.
We hit the trail.
Me, my brother, my daughter — rolling toward the nearby seafood spot. Casual but well-styled. It fit the afternoon.
Out front, there was a coffee pop-up.
I handed off the stroller and walked up.
The barista had full-sleeve tattoos. Alt vibe. Said she could serve me but couldn’t take payment — her coworker had the reader.
I waited. Sipped. Watched my brother bounce the stroller gently with his foot.
Eventually the coworker pulled up.
Latina. Mauve fuzzy sweatsuit.
Mos Def’s voice dropped in my head:
“Ass so fat you could see it from the front.”
I looked.
To be honest? Overkill. Probably a BBL. Not my flavor.
Still, she crouched down and said my daughter was cute.
That move always lands.
I tapped my card. Nodded. Logged it.
Summer’s going to be dangerous.