Daddies and daughters
By Robin DearingI'm 36 and I still call my dad, "daddy." He is, always has been. I wonder how long Margaret will call Bill "daddy"? She calls me "mama" and "mom" interchangeably. I'm sure she has special names — unprintable here — that she saves for special occasions, which she mutters under her breath. I am definitely my father's daughter. We share the same high cheeks bones, blue eyes and we’re both pretty excitable. I’d like to think that Margaret is a blend of both her dad and I. However, her quick temper is definitely a Dearing trait, as is her fair skin. But, there is a bond between Margaret and her dad that is undeniable. I can’t count how many times I’ve found him snuggled up next to her in her twin bed after she’s had a bad dream. I’m more of a tuck-and-run mom — I’ll sleepily accompany her to the bathroom in the middle of the night and tuck her back into bed. But I never hang around long enough to fall asleep. And really neither of them wants me to deprive myself of sleep, because a tired mama is a surly mama. When she gets hurt, she runs to her dad. I’m the one with the washcloth and hydrogen peroxide; he’s the one with the hugs and sympathy. When she wants to tell a silly joke, have someone wrestle or feed her … yep, Bill’s the guy for the job. There are times when they break out the potty humor and giggle themselves to the point of exhaustion. And I’m glad of it. She’s a lucky girl to have a dad that is not only present, but also ready for duty. He’s the parent that volunteered in her kindergarten class and bakes cookies with her. I’m the one who makes sure she’s wearing clean underwear and is dressed in some sort of reasonable manner (Bill’s taste in children’s clothes leans more toward the bizarre than the practical) with hair combed and teeth brushed. I like the division of duties involved in rearing this child. It works for us and as with all things parenting, what works is always going to be the most successful.