Not long after Liza came into our lives—and into Mack’s—I returned home to find a mysterious envelope taped to my front door. It wasn’t a bill or a friendly "hello" card; it felt strangely weighted.
I opened it up, and two small pieces of plastic fell out into my palm. I turned them over, squinting at them, trying to identify which household object had met a violent end. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from Liza:
"I found these in Mack’s poo. I’m most concerned. What has he been eating?"
I stood there on the porch, staring at the plastic evidence of Mack’s internal transit system. It was a baptism by fire into our new co-parenting arrangement. Most people might start a relationship by sharing a bottle of wine or a nice meal; Liza and I started ours with a shared, high-stakes investigation into what, exactly, Mack had decided was an appetizer.
It was a clear signal that Liza wasn't just a casual observer in Mack’s life—she was a woman who didn't mind getting her hands dirty (literally) to ensure his well-being. Looking at those two pieces of plastic, I realized that if Mack could survive his own questionable diet, and I could survive the horror of receiving his "output" in an envelope, the three of us were going to get along just fine.
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