I think my daughter is trying to tell me something. It starts first thing in the morning when the first thing she says to me as I lift her out of the cot, is “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
It continues when she cries because she’s brought into bed with me, whilst Daddy gets ready for work.
It lingers as she stretches out her arms for him when he brings her milk and my tea (what a legend) for us to drink in bed.
She tells me it with pinches, scratches and bites – that she’d much prefer Daddy’s company, rather than mine.
If she really wants to make sure I’ve got the message, she cries when he says “bye” and heads off to work.
Sometimes she likes to remind me she’d rather be with Daddy when when she’s having breakfast, at nappy changes, when we’re playing, or if we pop to the shops.
Of course the most excited “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” of all, comes as his car pulls onto the drive. We sit on the sofa in the bay window waiting for him to come home from work every night. She shakes with excitement when she sees him step out of the car and she realises she doesn’t have to be alone with me anymore. Hurrah, the better parent is back home!
Some nights she’ll barely give me a kiss or say bye to me as I go downstairs and make our dinner whilst he puts her to bed.
Tough gig being Mummy sometimes.
I’ve been thinking about why Daddy is the favourite parent. I think it has something to do with the fact that he gets home and does stuff like this…
What fun is Mummy? Mummy just does the boring every day stuff and generally keeps her alive. Yes, he keeps her alive too, but the only thing Mummy is good for, is food. Miss Belle knows who to go to for sustenance, that’s for sure.
Mummy has become the new word for food. Not “food please”, not “Mummy I’m hungry, please can I have something to eat?” Just “Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, MUMMY, MUMMMMMYYYYY!!!” Sigh.
I suppose if I’m being honest she does give me some affection, like when she clings on to my leg as I brush my teeth or prepare her lunch. Or if we go swimming, and she thinks I’m trying to kill her by daring to suggest she actually SWIMS. Or when I take her to the new ‘magical musical’ toddler class which is supposed to be enjoyable, but is clearly terrifying. (Who wants to join in when you can sit and suck your thumb, climb over Mummy and generally cling onto her for dear life?) I suppose you have to take what you can…and anyway Daddy will be home soon, and the trauma of spending time with Mummy will become a distant memory.
So yes, I think my daughter is trying to tell me something, don’t you think?