Natalia was always more active and was the first to walk, at just eleven months old. She was long, lean and graceful, while Sonny was shaped like a butt plug. I remember she balanced herself on the edge of the couch, then took three or four tentative steps while holding the cushions before falling into my arms. But if I stood too far she wouldn’t go to me, and if I were too close, she wouldn’t bother. Enter the string cheese. There isn’t a person or a creature on the planet that doesn’t love string cheese. Even dogs love it. Someone with full-blown leprosy could hand me a piece of string cheese and I’d eat it. I thought this would be a good motivator and gave her a taste. Then I stepped back three paces from the sofa. Reaching out for the string cheese, she kept going and quickly put together a full twenty steps. I was so proud of my little girl. Not only did she have Daddy’s sense of balance, she wasn’t even a year old and understood how capitalism works. (Or at least drug dealing. “Here’s a taste, but the rest will cost you.”) But while I was tempting Natalia with mozzarella, Sonny was just rolling around crapping himself. So I knew, early and often, that Natalia was going to be more energetic and thus harder to handle.

That could be a good thing. I’m glad she has a motor. It didn’t make for an easy parenting experience, but it probably means a bright future for my little girl. Maybe Sonny’s a deadbeat asshole on government assistance now, and Natalia is a multitasking millionaire philanthropist opening schools for girls in Darfur.

And, credit where credit is due, things actually improved quite a bit as Natalia got older. When I wrote this letter, she was eight and I can honestly say that for the past year things have been quite good. I’m sure you, Mr. or Ms. Therapist, know that sometimes the best way to fix a relationship is to ease off a bit. It’s like when I do some of my races and I start to go into a skid. The instinct is to grab the wheel and yank it in the opposite direction. The truth is that if you just let go a little bit, the car will pretty much right itself. If you jerk the wheel in the opposite direction, you make things worse. Well, that’s what I did to address a lot of the abuse I took from Natalia. I just gave it some space and let her outgrow it. I didn’t hover and I didn’t shout back. That’s an ego thing, a parent struggling for control because they aren’t confident. I was. I knew it would get better, and it did.

I love Natalia; I just have to set the record straight because she has a history of misinterpreting or just flat-out lying about Daddy.

For example, after our Lincoln-Douglas debates about the EzyRoller, I tried to make it right before she left the house. I came up behind her before she walked out and gave her a hug from behind. She shouted, “You hurt me!” I was just squeezing her from behind and trying to kiss her on the forehead and later she told Lynette I was “choking” her.

One summer afternoon, I took her to the beach in Malibu. This is one of the most beautiful, and thus most expensive, spots on earth. We literally walked past Madonna’s and Cher’s houses to get to the sand. We were walking around looking at tidal pools and starfish. We spotted a small crab that had been beached and looked like it was struggling. To role model a little humanitarianism, I tried to save the crab. I dumped some bottled water on it to help it get back to the water. But in that process I accidentally turned it over on its back. So I gingerly flipped it right again and sent it on its way.

When we got home that night, I was in the bathroom and I heard Natalia down the hall talking to Lynette and her friend recapping the day. “Daddy found a crab,” she said. Lynette replied, “Did he? That’s cool.” Natalia said back, “Yeah, he killed it.” Lynette was horrified. So for the record, I’m not some sociopath who tortures animals. I dumped three bucks worth of Evian on it to save the fucking thing. But I’m sure Natalia’s claiming to you that I waterboarded it.

Her most classic lie was much earlier in her life. When the kids were two years old, I’d come home from work and pick them up. I’d grab Sonny and give him a big hug and bounce him around. Then when I would reach for Natalia she would say, “Poo-poos, Daddy,” meaning that she had a full diaper or was about to shit herself. It wasn’t time to squeeze her like the world’s worst toothpaste tube. But after about twenty-six times, I caught on and checked her. Nothing. She had figured out that Daddy doesn’t do diapers, and conjured a way to get out of my hugging her.

Since we’re on the topic, I know a little about Freud and the whole anal fixation thing and that it’s all about potty training. So let me give you the embarrassing details about my kids and their bowels.

First off, kid poop is weird. It’s not solid. It looks like you left guacamole out on the counter for three days. Most times. But other times, as was the case with Natalia, it would be these hard, dusty, dry pellets. At a certain point when she was a toddler, her shit looked like something a dung beetle would roll around. I was wondering if she was just eating flour.

When the kids were first born Lynette would say, “You’re going to have to change diapers.” To which I replied, “Nope, payback’s a bitch. I’ve been busting my ass for the first ten years of our relationship while you’ve been eating bon-bons. Time to step up.” She shot back, “Why, because you’re some sort of celebrity?” I said, “Damn straight. I’ve been celebritying for the past ten years to pay for the house the diapers are in and the in-vitro that made the little shit machines in the first place. I’ve done my part.”

I can count the number of number twos I’ve cleaned on one hand. I don’t have that gene. I’m uncomfortable with the whole process. I don’t like seeing my daughter’s chest, never mind down in lady-town. You’ve got to take that wipe and get in there to clean the girl parts. Not happening. And with the boys, you’ve got to clean around the ding-a-ling and sack. A little kid sack looks like a rabbit’s brain or something. It’s like trying to clean a golf ball. Shouldn’t you just be able to dip them in something? Can’t we get My First Bidet out to market?

There were only a few times when I was alone with them when they were babies, so there were only a few diaper-tunities anyway. I remember one night that Lynette was out and it was all me, Mr. Mom. They were crying and I thought, just let them be. I knew I fed them and that they weren’t being consumed by sewer rats. But they were unrelenting. I was up and down all night. Sonny used to make a face like a bad Mexican actor before he’d cry, so once I caught on to his tell, I’d blow in his face to confuse him out of it, like a dog hanging his head out the window. It interrupted his thought process and shut down the waterworks. It wasn’t effective on Natalia. I had to hang out in their room all night. I couldn’t leave or they’d cry. I’d try to sneak out but as soon as they figured out I wasn’t around, they’d start wailing again.

Another night, Lynette and the gals were going out to see the Beastie Boys, and before they left I was given the condescending rundown: “Put on the quiet music,” “Put on the blankie,” “As they nod off, move them from the daybed into the crib.” While Lynette was getting ready, Natalia started making noises, like preverbal conversation cooing kind of sounds. Sonny, meanwhile, was crying like a stuck pig. I thought the difference was interesting and funny and wanted to play it on the morning radio show the next day. I grabbed a camera and was videotaping them to capture the audio when Lynette walked in. In full “You idiot” tone, she said, “Why are you videotaping them? Just pick them up.” I was already off to a bad start.

While Lynette was listening to the B-boys do “No Sleep Till Brooklyn,” the kids had actually gone to sleep on their daybed. I decided that they were both okay and if I attempted to move them to the crib, I’d end up waking them. So I just left them there. Lynette had warned me Natalia would roll around and flop while Sonny would just sit there like a turtle on its back. (A trend that continues today, as far as physical activity.) I figured I’d be fine hopping out of the room for a few to check some car auctions. I was maybe a minute into my second favorite Internet-related activity when I heard some crying. I came back in and Natalia was facedown on the floor. She had rolled herself out of the daybed, two feet down to the carpet. Sonny was still in the bed unfazed. I ran in and grabbed her, she was squealing but seemed more confused than hurt. I checked for damage and was carrying her around, and saying it was okay and not to tell anybody. I didn’t hear her hit the ground, just the crying afterward, so I had to assume that it wasn’t too bad. Needless to say, when Lynette saw the bump that later appeared on Natalia’s head, I was not left alone with them as infants very much.