The Kiddo's Father

I have often been asked how, after all that has happened, I can still be sincerely nice to my Ex whom I always refer to as “Kiddo’s Father”.

It wasn’t always like that. It wasn’t long ago that we couldn’t utter two sentences to each other without fighting. It would be the same arguments, the same potshots – which, because we knew exactly where to strike, would always hit their mark. Pain and remorse would ensue, and it was like we were back to living under one roof again.

Now, when I refer to him as “Kiddo’s Father” – I am simply declaring a statistical fact. There’s no incendiary emotion or connotation. I never call him “my Ex”. Using “my” as a prefix implies attachment, ownership or belonging. It alludes to a time when we were something to each other apart from being just Kiddo’s parents. It goes back to a period in my life that I will never deny, but do not wish to re-visit. It’s not out of anger, or bitterness, or anything in between. It’s more out of a need to compartmentalize. It’s to separate the man I was once married to and the man who is still the father of my child. I need for that man to be two people to me.

There is the man whose last name I still carry. When I married him, I’d known him more than half my life and had been in love with him for nearly as long.

That love, along with the part of me that belonged to him, has died. Its slow demise was debilitating and watching it wither away brought excruciating pain. I buried it and for years, mourned its loss. From time to time, I still pay my respects to it. It's often when I need to involve him in some major decision that will affect Kiddo -- what school she’ll go to, disciplinary measures and most importantly, for consistency’s sake, how to explain our situation to her.

That man will never be forgotten, but he is different from the man that my daughter calls “Daddy”. She has that man on a pedestal. I wish for him to be joyfully driven by the need to always be deserving of that pedestal. He worships the ground she walks on. I wish for her to bask in the love and devotion that only a father can give. I want her to know what it is like to be unconditionally cherished by a man. I want them to get to know each other as individuals, not just as a parent and child.

I am able to do that by thinking of him as “Kiddo’s Father”. It not only detaches, it simplifies. It limits his role in my life, while still acknowledging his role in hers. It latently reminds me that it’s not about us anymore. It does away with the need to assign blame and the tendency to vilify or malign. It files away my bad memories, honors the good ones, and paves the way for Kiddo to make her own, with the man who will always be her Father.