As always, the littlest nieces and nephews hover around their mommy.
Except for my 20-month-old, who hovers around her daddy.
She whimpers, looking past me for Daddy.
“It’s OK,” I say soothingly.
“Mommy’s here.”
She stares at me blankly and bursts into tears.
“Da-Da,” she insists, straining at the straps and pushing me to the side.
You know, all the things fathers usually lug.
I am no longer merely mildly annoyed by her obvious preference.
I find it downright disturbing.
I fire up the front door.
She hears my voice and comes running from the living room.
“Well,” my mother, who has been observing the scene, pipes up.
“She certainly is a daddy’s girl!”
I am well aware of the advantages of this situation.
I get to sit on the couch; Gary spends most of his time kneeling on the floor.
I can go to the bathroom any time I want and stay in there as long as I want.
On good days, my husband and I joke about the situation.
Lately, Gary has taken to calling me management, as in “Take it to management.”
This is what he tells Rose whenever she asks him for something.
The distressing part is thathehas to be the one to do it.
Our daughter may need me, but shewantsher daddy.
I try hard to stay above it all.
Why wouldn’t she associate him with happiness, security and home?
Still, it has been hard not to feel rejected.
In frequent Sunday-night tirades, I’d complain about having to work full-time and my killer commute.
I fantasized about quitting.
Before Rose arrived, I’d vowed my life would not change much when I had a baby.
I planned to continue my job as a newspaper reporter.
Except it was Da-Da she couldn’t be without.
It’s bad enough to get trumped by your nanny.
I was the one with all the babysitting experience.
I was the one who was good with kids.
I had the uterus, dammit!
What the hell was going on?
He’s patient to a fault.
Indeed, people routinely ask me if Gary is a househusband.
“No, he works full-time,” I reply.
In fact, he’s the primary breadwinner.
He’s simply better at the caregiving thing than I am.
People tell me I’m lucky.
I was sitting alone again.
“Oh, I know what you’re going through,” she said sympathetically.
“It’s hard dating a single dad, isn’t it?
“It’s hard dating a single dad?
!Hell hath no fury like a woman whose maternal instincts are called into question.
This time, we would do things differently, I informed him.
I’d quit my job.
Or we’d move closer to my office to cut down on my commute.
Or I’d go part-time.
Whatever it took, I was determined to bond with my baby.
Gary remained calm during my diatribe.
(So did Rose, for that matter, sleeping peacefully in her car seat.)
“That’s fine,” he said.
“If you’re gonna wanna do things differently, fine.
I had to think about that.
Rose was a wonderful baby.
People often told us that she was the happiest child they’d ever seen.
That makes sense to me.
Frankly, it didn’t surprise me that Rose adored her fatherI adore him, too.
Why, then, should my daughter’s clear preference for her father irk me so much?
That’s when I realized how stupid I was being.
Because, after all, shouldn’t the focus of a good mother be the well-being of her child?
I am the one our daughter brings books to, because I am best at doing funny voices.
Now that Rose is talking, she asks Gary repeatedly when I’m getting home from work.
She won’t go to sleep until we’re all together again, under the same roof.
She’s a happy personalbeit happier still when Daddy is around.
Things are more fun when Daddy is around.
Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
Photo Credit: Robert Deutschman/Alyssa Pizer Management
