Things He Sends Our Daughter

I wore his dog tags throughout our doomed marriage, the ones on which Mormon had been misspelled Morman, which is funny because at six-foot-five, he is more man than most. The point is, he sends her purple camo pajamas with pictures of dog tags all over them. I think anything military is an inappropriate gift for a toddler—especially one who took a swing at me the other day and needs, maybe, to be discouraged away from violence—so I junk it.

We married on Halloween. Also the day I lost my virginity back when I was fourteen, but he’s probably forgotten I told him that. He sends her an orange and black T-shirt with a pumpkin silk-screened on the front. It’s April. I junk the T-shirt too.

But there’s another one! This T-shirt is a classic, by which I mean he sends it every damn year, twice a year, on Christmas as well as her birthday. The front says my daddy is a fireman, but I can’t imagine her walking around in it, strangers asking her about a guy she doesn’t remember. I see the colors are red and black, not the blue and grey of the other shirts he’s sent her, and I see one of his drawings—angel wings—on the back. How is he allowed to design T-shirts now? Who did he charm?

His fire station only sells children’s smalls, so the shirt is meant for a kindergartener. Our daughter has a couple years to go before it could possibly fit her, and we’ll probably move a few times before then, and I’m not dragging his grudge gift across the country waiting for the day I can make her wear it in public. I junk it instead.

His mom, her grandma, sends some normal clothes—nothing expensive, a little much in the frills department, a little too pink. But still usable. I’d thank her but odds are I’ll never see her again in my life.

There’s a fire truck with an ear-splitting battery-operated horn, and that’s just like the fireman shirt—he’s sent something that makes too much noise in every gift box ever, because he doesn’t have to hear her play with any of it. I don’t junk the truck, but I do take out the batteries.

Finally, the card. Tere’s always a card, and our daughter can’t read, so I assume the cards are meant for me. This one says “You’re three! I’ll come for you soon,” and it says something else about God. I couldn’t tell you if the card is a threat or what, and I couldn’t tell you why I save the thing. So I can pull it out years from now and prove to an unruly teenage version of my kid that I’m not lying, her father’s unhinged? Hell, maybe. I’m not above anything these days. So I put the card in my filing cabinet knowing one day I’ll show her, one day she’ll see.