Perhaps I am now destined to spend the rest of my days wishing I had stubble, amongst other Ghostwriterdaddy attributes. For, you see, I have discovered lately that I have been committing the ultimate sin. I am not Daddy. *Gasp*I know, I know. You would never have guessed it, eh? But it’s true. My son has recently pointed it out to me and he is only two. He must be a genius.
This morning, like many mornings, we were awoken to cries of
“Daddy! Are you there?!”
“Daddy! I want to get up now!”
It was my turn. I left the baby sleeping and I crept into my beloved son’s bedroom with a smile already on my face as I imagined the early morning cuddles on the sofa we would have, followed by some early morning cartoons perhaps. But definitely the cuddles.
“You’re not Daddy.”
This announcement froze the smile on my lips but I would not be deterred.
“Daddy’s in bed,” I told him softly. “Mummy will take you downstairs.”
“Don’t want Mummy. I want my Daddy.”
Repeat three times
Eventually an ultimatum was issued and the toddler reluctantly accepted second best.
But why am I second best? It’s not fair. I try to be fun. We go out all the time while Daddy is at work. We go to groups, to the park, to splash in puddles, to collect worms. We play football in the garden, we dig up mud from plant pots and we walk in the pram to feed the ducks. We go to the woods, to soft play. We paint, we draw, we read stories, we sing songs and we dance. But at the end of all of this, when all my parenting/ teaching/ human empathy skills are spent… I am NOT Daddy.
The Big One was always a Daddy’s girl. I assumed the toddler would be a Mummy’s boy (but in a good way, not a wet lettuce). Perhaps this is my fault? We had a nice routine. My favourite part of the day was at bedtime, where I would sit on the sofa with my precious boy and enjoy cuddles before bed. He would rest his head on my shoulder as we climbed the stairs to bed. I would lie him down and wish him sweet dreams and he would smile sleepily. The last time I did that was the night before the baby was born.
Perhaps this is part of his terrible twos rather than the fact that he is unhappy being with me. It’s just the way it goes, I guess. I spend the first few months of their lives with them clamped to my chest at all hours, quite literally breathing life into them and they repay me by shunning me for the ‘more fun’ parent. Daddy. Ho hum…