Fathers of Daughters

It was yesterday, 10:00 pm. Since the sun refuses to go to bed, my Kevin refuses to go to bed also, and neither of her parents were up to fighting bedtime for an hour, so we just let her stay up. We're weak like that. And exhausted.

So when we finally decided to attempt bedtime and family scripture study last night, we agreed to read half as much as we usually do and call it good and hope to get to sleep before midnight.

I started reading. I made it through a few verses. By the time I got to the middle of the page, I couldn't hear myself think, much less comprehend what I was reading. 

I looked over and Scott and Kevin had started an epic game of "stick the stuffed kitty on the top of daddy's head and laugh hysterically when it falls off."

I shook my head, smiled, and kept reading until I had gotten all the way through our normal routine of reading two pages. The two of them barely noticed. 

It's just their thing. I'm starting to get that. It's what they do.  Like how after dinner, she crawled into my arms, looked at Scott, and said, "I need a tickle!" or how she runs away from him every day when he gets home from work until she decides she just can't help but hugging him.

Or how, the night before, when she wouldn't go back to bed after teething pain woke her up at 2 am (seriously, are we ever going to catch a break?), she eventually woke up all four of us (baby brother included, he loves middle-of-the-night parties), and as she was enjoying a snack of graham ("gaham") crackers dipped in milk, all of the sudden she looked at Scott and asked,

"What happened? To your face?"

Here's the answer: she happened.

There should be something special about every relationship between a parent and a child. There is something so beautiful about mothering a daughter. There is something untouchable about that cliche "Mama's boy." But that daddy-daughter relationship? I'd venture to say it results in more tears, giggles, butterflies, shotgun sales, hugs, kisses, and smiles than any other relationship on earth.

So while this daughter of ours drives us completely nuts, it still breaks my heart when I wake up to her crying at the crack of dawn, moaning, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy to work!" because she heard his car drive away as she was waking up.

And I've gotten used to certain behaviors where he has shifted the focus from me to her: Saturday morning cuddles. Matching his tie to her Sunday dress instead of mine. Planning our weekends around what activity would bring a big smile to her face.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone a few months ago and complaining about how I had spent all day doing things for my daughter--reading, playing, battling, feeding, cuddling--and how she wouldn't even give me a hug but the second Scott walked through the door, she ran to him with open arms and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

I could hear the smile in my Dad's voice when he said, "That's just what daughters do to mothers."

And I realized: that's exactly what I did (and still on occasion, do) to my mother.

My dad's statement wasn't a commentary on the daddy-daughter relationship as much as it was him revealing a truth to me: no matter how close I get to my daughter, I will never be her daddy, which means he gets all the kisses and hugs and I get the leftovers.

Good thing #2 is a boy. 

Because guess what else I've realized in the past few weeks? 

Momma's boys make the best daddies.