I have made no secret of the fact that all the girls in this house are certified Daddy's Girls. Even I prefer haging out with Ross over hanging out with myself. It is no surprise either as he is funny, handsome, laid back, and an incredibly good kisser! I tend to be a little more tightly wound, and focussed on business. I clean, teach, and discipline interspersed with playing and tickle torture. Daddy gets to play and provide treats with interspersed discipline. There is a difference there. Life is just generally more fun when Daddy comes home. Emma waits all day to hear the garage door open announcig Daddy's return, and he always gets a very warm and enthusiastic welcome.
For the most part, this situation does not bother me. Ross and I have different roles in raising our children, and that is as it should be. I never for one minute feel that my children love me less, they just love me differently.
I said for the most part though. Sometimes it does bother me. Sometimes I feel cheated. Sometimes I cry for the injustice of my self-inflicted role. It happened once this week. I spent the day scolding Emma for her defiant attitude and overall naughtiness. I refused to reward her bad behavior with treats, and this sent her into a fit of tears and screaming, which landed her on her bed in her room. We do not tolerate fits in this house. Sara, ever the sensitive little soul reacted to all this emotion with some tears and screams of her own, and led her to tear all the pages out of a book. I know she is too young to really be disciplined, but Emma is too old to see the bad behavior of a sibling go unpunished without finding acute injustice in the matter. So, I scolded poor Sara for Emma's sake, and her tears escalated and another fit was born in the Goodman abode.
Just as I was about to join the two of them in their wailing, the garage door opened. Emma ran down to meet him- her fit over for the moment. I admit that I was angry. I had just endured a full 2 hours of cries, kicks, and harsh words only to see it all eradicated with the sound of a motorized door opening. Unfair! I greeted my breadwinner with nothing more than a screaming baby and a diaper. I needed a shower, and a chance to cool down from the pressures of the day. When I got out of the shower about 10 minutes later, Sara was still crying.
It made me smile.
Let me explain myself here. I was not smiling because I felt Ross deserved it. I can't blame him for our rough days. I was not smiling because I felt Sara deserved a little more misery for her breach of the rules she is just barely beginning to understand. Those scenarios would paint me to be heartless and vindictive, and I try to not be like that towards my family.
I was smiling because I knew that cry. It was my cry. It was the cry that Sara uses when she wants me- her mommy. It was the cry that could never be silenced by bottles, treats, favorite aunts, or even Daddy. My little Daddy's Girl wanter her mommy. I quickly dressed and ran downstairs. It took about 30 seconds for her to calm down in my arms.
I held her tight, and she held me back. She was apologizing for ripping the book, and I was apologizing for scolding her for something she was not ready to understand.
I kissed her forhead and tickled her neck and said a silent and tearful prayer of thanks for the little, and yet substantial gift she had just given me.