Playing Favorites
So, Bryon has been traveling more than usual. In the past three weeks he has been home just a few days. And this weekend he left for another week-long trip. We said our goodbyes in the driveway. He headed to the airport. We headed to a hockey game.
As we pulled out of the driveway Abby said, "I don't think it's fair Daddy has to travel so much. I don't want him to go. He's my favorite parent."
Wait. What?
"He's your favorite parent?" I asked.
"Yes. Is that wrong?"
"No, it's not wrong," I said, "but it's something you might keep to yourself," I added under my breath.
After all I get it. Every year on Abby's birthday her Dad takes her out of school to see a movie. Once a month they go on a date to their favorite restaurant where Abby is more popular than Norm at Cheers.
I don't do those things. I only get up at the ass-crack of dawn to make her lunch and breakfast. I carry her from bed to the breakfast table. I drive her to and from school and chauffeur her and her giggling friends to soccer, ballet, jazz and gymnastics. I arrange all her play dates and sleepovers. I paint her toenails. I watch Girl Meets World over and over again and listen to Space Unicorns. I dance in the kitchen during our disco dance parties. I paint and draw and play Sorry and Barbie Bling. I help with homework and sign the reading logs. I tuck her in.
So, yeah, I guess I get it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter or discouraged. After all I have a favorite child.
No, wait. I DON'T!
Each of my kids is lovable and insufferable, delightful and devilish. I hate that Sam curses like a sailor but he still holds my hand when we're together. I hate Jake's meltdowns but love that he will seek me out during the day just to say he loves me. I don't love Abby's sass, but her love of all creatures great and small melts your heart.
Over the course of the day Abby and I watched the hockey game, shopped for Halloween costumes and got groceries, and there were many times I nearly asked her, "Hey Abby. So remember that time you said Dad was your favorite?" But I didn't. I may not have liked the answer.
Maybe she prefers Bryon because despite his grumpiness and impatience he doesn't sweat the small stuff like the placement of the couch pillows or the position of the bins under the TV or all the shoes outside the basket.
Or if he's the favorite parent.
As we pulled out of the driveway Abby said, "I don't think it's fair Daddy has to travel so much. I don't want him to go. He's my favorite parent."
Wait. What?
"He's your favorite parent?" I asked.
"Yes. Is that wrong?"
"No, it's not wrong," I said, "but it's something you might keep to yourself," I added under my breath.
After all I get it. Every year on Abby's birthday her Dad takes her out of school to see a movie. Once a month they go on a date to their favorite restaurant where Abby is more popular than Norm at Cheers.
I don't do those things. I only get up at the ass-crack of dawn to make her lunch and breakfast. I carry her from bed to the breakfast table. I drive her to and from school and chauffeur her and her giggling friends to soccer, ballet, jazz and gymnastics. I arrange all her play dates and sleepovers. I paint her toenails. I watch Girl Meets World over and over again and listen to Space Unicorns. I dance in the kitchen during our disco dance parties. I paint and draw and play Sorry and Barbie Bling. I help with homework and sign the reading logs. I tuck her in.
So, yeah, I guess I get it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter or discouraged. After all I have a favorite child.
No, wait. I DON'T!
Each of my kids is lovable and insufferable, delightful and devilish. I hate that Sam curses like a sailor but he still holds my hand when we're together. I hate Jake's meltdowns but love that he will seek me out during the day just to say he loves me. I don't love Abby's sass, but her love of all creatures great and small melts your heart.
Over the course of the day Abby and I watched the hockey game, shopped for Halloween costumes and got groceries, and there were many times I nearly asked her, "Hey Abby. So remember that time you said Dad was your favorite?" But I didn't. I may not have liked the answer.
Maybe she prefers Bryon because despite his grumpiness and impatience he doesn't sweat the small stuff like the placement of the couch pillows or the position of the bins under the TV or all the shoes outside the basket.
Or if he's the favorite parent.
posted by Romine Family at 11:03 AM
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