I don’t dream, except on rare occasions. Or at least I don’t think I dream. Most mornings when I’m awake I don’t have a lingering memory of a dream. There are occasions of dreams and when those occasions do occur, they aren’t pleasant ones. They are dark ones, typically full of terror, and sometimes preminitions of things to come.

The night after the concert was an exception. The energy and vibrancy from the concert were carried into Slumberland, but instead of waking feeling exhausted, I awoke feeling refreshed and happy. A weight I didn’t know was there had shifted.

And with this came this urgency to see Eleanor again.

I drove to my parents’ house and stayed through lunch. When asked about the concert, I didn’t mention Patrick or the fishnet stockings, but I did share what was appropriate for a six-year-old: the confetti, the lights, and the music.

“Did you dance, daddy?” Eleanor asked.

“I tried,” I told her. “It was silly.”

On the drive back, Eleanor regaled me of stories of her time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Grandma and her played dressup and dolls. They baked cookies together, read books, and had cuddle time in bed. All in all, a very fun evening.

Once home, Eleanor resumed her normal play routine and I was left with my thoughts.

Part of me wanted to call Patrick, but I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure what last night was. It had been awhile since I had made a friend and the connection we forged, while brief, felt oddly comfortable.

In college I had made friendships that had lasted well past a decade post-graduation. When those friendships started there was a sense of a spark—that of an immediate connection and bond. In the years since, Veronica was the only other person I had fiercely bonded too.

I couldn’t help but wonder—because of his dance moves and sense of style and fashion—if there was something more to our connection last night. Thinking it felt odd and judgey.

What did I mean by that? Did I think he was flirting with me? Was it my inflated sense of self that made him think he was flirting with me? Did I even know what flirting looked like anymore?

When I was younger, I didn’t have a process to realize I was straight. Based on the way I was raised–my Catholic upbringing, how conservative my household was–it was my only option. Being anything other than straight wasn’t an option, because we were raised believing that it was nurture instead of nature that led to that lifestyle. Homosexuality—both the orientation and the sexual act—was sinful. God had designed marriage as a lifelong union between man and woman and that any sexual attraction towards a member of the same sex was a rebellion against the natural order of things.

We were taught that homosexuality came from abuse, neglect, and poor father figures; that it was a choice. We were told that there was a rise in homosexuality because our nation had turned into a paganized society—like the pagan cultures of old that were written about in the Bible. In particular, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

In retrospect it was ironic due to the sexual proclivities of priests within our diocese. When the scandal broke, a priest I knew and had gone on camping trips with was one of the men accused and eventually convicted. As I read the news articles I saw names of kids I knew from Sunday school and I felt relieved and lucky to have been excluded from his fondlings and worse.

Regardless of what I was taught, I had friends that were closeted. They were open about their homosexuality amongst close friends, myself included, but kept it hidden from others. As our circle of evangelical friends talked about how homosexuality was a choice I would hear from my homosexual friends, “I wish I wasn’t this way. I wish I could change, but I can’t.”

One of my closest friends who, in his own words, was in and out of therapy more times than he downloaded and deleted hookup apps. His adolescent years were spent constantly assessing social situations: being too careful, messing up, overcompensating—all with this heightened sense of anxiety. When he messed up, he was never directly bullied. All the bullying was done in his head by himself.

In the high school’s locker room showers, he once stopped me and asked if I thought that he looked good in the shower. It was a question that was asked so innocently; a question that was framed by this sense of need. A need for acceptance, appreciation and validation, but asked in the wrong scenario. I told him no, intending to finish my thought by telling him that I wasn’t looking at him because we were showering, but he quickly deflected by telling me that I wasn’t his type.

After college, I saw a large portion of my social circle disappear into relationships, families, and kids, but the other portion struggled through isolation and anxiety. In a society that oppressed and repressed them, the homosexual friends I had became depressed. Even after they embraced their sexuality as a part of themselves and left the isolation of the closet, they still felt isolated.

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One friend committed suicide.

Another became addicted to heroin.

With all the dogma and judgement surrounding religion and sexual preferences, I finally reached a point where I didn’t care. To clarify, I cared about the people involved and affected, but stopped caring about how people were interpreting the Bible or the constitution or whatever document they used to inform their version of the truth. I just wanted my friends to be happy and loved and accepted. I wanted them to stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and to understand that they were okay; that nothing was wrong with them.

I had lost touch with my friend from the locker room shortly after graduation, but I wish I had heard him the way he wished he wanted to be heard. I wish I had told him that he was perfectly designed and that who he was was fine as long as it was rooted in truth and did good in the universe and allowed himself to be the best version of himself.

But I also saw something within myself that was a curiosity; something that was never provided room to be explored. Who was I now that Veronica was no longer here? Was I the same person? Or was the room to evolve?

The religious rules about sex also affected my self-described straight self. Growing up, I was taught that masturbation was wrong, because every sperm was sacred. Sex was only to be used for the procreation of children and to use any form of birth control was a sin.

It affected early relationships and even created some internal shame and judgment in the early days of my relationship with Veronica.

Who am I?

I look at my phone. Should I call Patrick? Was it too soon? What would it mean if I waited a few days?

Why am I so caught up in my own head?

Patrick doesn’t pick up, so instead of leaving a message I text him, asking if he wants to get coffee this week. And then I waited for his reply, questioning whether I had texted him too soon. But soon I can see that he’s typing. I keep touching my screen to keep it from going to sleep. After a while his message appears, suggesting a date, time, and location. We go back and forth, settling the details, and it’s set. There’s a piece of me that’s excited about forging this new connection.

Eleanor is yelling for me in the downstairs bathroom.

I set my phone down and run downstairs.

Opening the door, I freeze. “What is going on?” I ask horrified.

Eleanor is sitting on the potty, her pants around her ankles and there is shit everywhere.

There’s a little brown streak on the wall next to the toilet paper, a small mound on the rug in front of the toilet, and turning around, I can see some smeared on the door frame. Worst of all is Eleanor’s hands. They are covered from fingertips to her wrists with shit.

The beginning of a laugh bursts from my lips and I shake my head. “What happened?” I ask.

Eleanor smiles, laughing a little bit, but then looks down, the mirth replaced with embarrassment. “I wanted to know what it felt like.”

“And what did you learn?” I ask.

“Not to touch it?” she asks and I wonder why she has to form it as a question.

“Stay right there,” I tell her.

Opening the bathroom closet, I pull out paper towels and a bottle of cleaning supplies. I start with the floor, wall, and door frame. Finding an old set of baby wipes that are thankfully still moist, I use them to clean Eleanor’s hands.

Gently, I remove her pants and underwear that are bunched around her ankles and help her hop down so I could clean her bottom.

We’re quiet throughout this process. Anything else I say will result in her feeling more shame and probably won’t help her learn any additional lessons from this.

Once she’s as clean as can be, I pick Eleanor up, holding her as far away from my body as possible and carry her upstairs to shower.

There’s times when being a single parent is maddening. It’s easy to find the hilarity of these situations, but at the same time you wish for someone close enough to share these moments with; someone that’s connected on a deep level to myself and Eleanor.

I’ve tried sharing these stories with my parents, but they’ve never appreciated or understood bathroom humor and usually end up asking if Eleanor is okay.

There are parents of young kids at my office and they’ve probably had similar experiences, but at the office we only talk about work, not our lives outside the office.

This thought of sharing, turns into an urge to share, and so after asking Eleanor to get her shoes on ten or so times, we pile into the car, driving to a cemetery we hadn’t visited in almost a year.

Once out of the car, Eleanor begins to run, weaving through the headstones, stopping to pick the occasional dandelion to place on Veronica’s grave.

“Eleanor’s six,” I start. “We miss you, but I think we’re doing okay.”

As Eleanor runs around Veronica’s gravesite and those that surrounded hers, I tell Veronica about us, about Eleanor’s exploits in first grade, a recent drawing she did, how I was teaching her a nursery rhyme on the electric piano, and how she contaminated our bathroom, but also, more than likely, boosted her immune system.

“I met a new friend last night. We’re getting coffee in a few days. I’m not really sure what to make of it. Part of me feels like he was flirting with me, but the other part of me feels like it’s been so long since I’ve made a new friend, that I don’t know what flirting feels like. I hope it’s okay.”

Veronica doesn’t say anything and I think for a moment longer if there’s anything else I want to say, but I don’t.

I call for Eleanor and we begin walking back to the car.