Lament of the Daddy

I don't want a ticker parade, honest.

I don't want people throwing compliments my way and talking up what a great and brave decision I made choosing to stay home with my daughter when she was a baby. Women choose or are stuck staying home with babies every single day of the year and no one is praising them to the sky for their sacrifices or their sensitivity or any of that. In fact, if you're a guy, change a diaper some time. Not only will you get a taste of how the other half lives far more of their lives than you do, but every woman in a ten mile radius will declaim over what a great guy you are.

Yes, I chose to stay home with my daughter and it was the best four years of my life. The soulless, mindlessness of my evening job? I did that with one half of me brain tied behind my back, and it was all gravy. Because I got to stay home during the day and play and sing songs and have fun and go to the zoo and the museum and eat ice cream and set up the kiddie pool and go for long stomping walks in the rain and snuggle in a chair to read stories. I got to spend about six to eight uninterruped hours every day with my favorite person in the whole wide world and we could do whatever we wanted for as long as we wanted.

Until nap time, of course.

It's not bravery if you're having a blast, loving every minute of it, wishing it would never stop.

But still.

Yes, The Littlest Critic is a Daddy's Girl a lot of the time. I mean a lot. She got into trouble once at the grocery store, not more than a month ago, because she ran away from her mother so she could go with me when I went to look at wine. And when it's time to brush her hair for a fancy event or gymnastics class, it's always me she wants to do it. And if she had to pick one of us to play with, nine times out of ten, it's me.

But still.

But still and still and still.

I want one person to recognize what I did. The fun we had. Just one. Only one.

The other morning, as we all awoke one fine Sunday morning, TLC leaned over and she patted her mother on the arm and what did my daughter say to her? "Mama, guess what? I love you."

How adorable. It made my heart want to just burst into rainbow colored puppies with sprinkles on top.

Five minutes later, an identical pat on my arm. I turned to my daughter with expectation in my heart.

"Yes?" I asked my beloved daughter.

"Daddy," she said, "did I get a new toy?"

Just one incident you say? But it's not. I overhear them all the time, sitting on the couch. Out of nowhere, TLC comments, "I love you, mama."

Or we'll be in the bathroom, I'm giving her a bath, sitting next to the tub while TLC tells a little story with her ducks and her hippos. Apropos of nothing, she'll say, "I miss mommy. I love mama."

Or The Wife will go out with her friends some weekend night, and when it's bedtime and we're reading stories, TLC will make me stop and I'll have to get my cellphone so we can call her mother to tell her she misses her and wants her to come home.

And, yes, I'm certain my daughter loves me. I have no doubt of this in the world.

One time when we were racing along the street holding hands, she looked up at me with this look on her face, this look that just blazed with love and fun and happiness and it was because she was with me. and I thought I could die right then and it would be the apex of my life. Then we had to break eye contact to see where we were running, but I glanced back at The Wife to see if she had seen it too and she had and we were all just one big happy loving family.

But she doesn't say it.

I say it to her every day when I drop her off at school. I say it to her every night when it's time for lights out. I say it to her every chance I get and every time I remember out of the blue.

But not TLC.

So, Tuesday night, I come home from work. And there's this:



Come home Thursday night, there's this:


And on and on and on.

In all my life, almost six years old now, TLC has one single time made me an unprompted "I love you" message on paper. She wrote "I love J" in pen on a blank piece of paper, then a couple minutes later she took it back from me and wrote "and Sparrow" (her cat) at the bottom.

What's up with that?

Moms. You know what, moms? You guys piss me off. Even when you've got it easy, it's all about you. Grrrr.

Bill Cosby knows what I'm talking about (never mind the second part of the video where "Carlos Mencia" totally rips off this material like the punk ass joke thief that he is). You know it, Bill, you preach it, brother.