Daddy's Little Girl
My husband has been having a passionate love affair for the past six years. Her name is Julia. I know this because I gave birth to her and had the privilege to choose her name, which is little consolation. Of course it gives me great pleasure to see the connection they have, and to witness the spontaneous, mutual laughter they enjoy with each other.
But it's bothersome nonetheless to realize that I will never, ever elicit the same look in her eye that she gets when she looks at her daddy.
He, to her, is everything good, safe and FUN in this world. He is the indulger, the pacifier, the clown. He is the ever-ready playmate long after I have tuckered out. He is the infallible protector from all things crawly. And he, above all else, is her first love.
There will be change---there will be some disappointment when she is older; when he is absent from the recitals or heartbreaks or Mean Girls dramas that I most certainly will be there for. She will undoubtedly find fault in the way he treats me when she begins to blossom into her own woman and create her own expectations about men. And she will be frustrated with his inevitable machismo when it rears its ugly head in the most socially inappropriate situations ("But EVERYONE is going to be there, Daddy! I have to go!?").
The change will be incremental, but never lasting. It will be subtle, and secondary. It will affect their relationship, but never, ever dilute its strength. In the end (across the dorm quad and down the aisle and, God help me, around the grandkids), the bond will be as absolute and true as it was that first day in the hospital when she stubbornly refused to nurse from my breast, yet took the bottle from Daddy's hand as though it were he, not I, who was created for just that purpose.
I pray the bond will remain as strong as it is today for the rest of their days together on this planet. As for me, I plan to derive my own special joy, watching it from the sidelines I've been relegated to, for at least that long.
But it's bothersome nonetheless to realize that I will never, ever elicit the same look in her eye that she gets when she looks at her daddy.
He, to her, is everything good, safe and FUN in this world. He is the indulger, the pacifier, the clown. He is the ever-ready playmate long after I have tuckered out. He is the infallible protector from all things crawly. And he, above all else, is her first love.
There will be change---there will be some disappointment when she is older; when he is absent from the recitals or heartbreaks or Mean Girls dramas that I most certainly will be there for. She will undoubtedly find fault in the way he treats me when she begins to blossom into her own woman and create her own expectations about men. And she will be frustrated with his inevitable machismo when it rears its ugly head in the most socially inappropriate situations ("But EVERYONE is going to be there, Daddy! I have to go!?").
The change will be incremental, but never lasting. It will be subtle, and secondary. It will affect their relationship, but never, ever dilute its strength. In the end (across the dorm quad and down the aisle and, God help me, around the grandkids), the bond will be as absolute and true as it was that first day in the hospital when she stubbornly refused to nurse from my breast, yet took the bottle from Daddy's hand as though it were he, not I, who was created for just that purpose.
I pray the bond will remain as strong as it is today for the rest of their days together on this planet. As for me, I plan to derive my own special joy, watching it from the sidelines I've been relegated to, for at least that long.
posted by jsa at 2:13 AM
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