The Dad

Brow furrowed, little legs a movin’, she travelled by me with intensity and conviction, on a mission.  “I need to ask Daddy something really important,” she declared as she shot right past me.  

I opened my ears a little wider as she asked the important question in an adjacent room.  “Daddy.  How did Jesus actually make us?”

I got the satisfied report just seconds later.  “Mommy.  Jesus made us out of DIRT.”  Then, after, “I didn’t ask you because you probably wouldn’t know.”

Hmm.  Thanks daughter.  Thanks.

Although my children need me, they desperately WANT their Daddy.  Never failing, when he enters the house upon returning from work, or just from going to the washroom, 4 teeny cute little legs scurry from whatever they were doing, racing to see who can get there first.  Just this morning, “Daddy!  We’re so excited to see you!”  

Maybe it’s because he can carry them both at the same time.  Or maybe it’s because they know he’s not going to wipe their cute little bums.  Then again, maybe it’s because he just SITS there, being exciting or not.  But he just is with them.  Not distracted.  Not trying to do 3 tasks at the same time.  I think it might be because he knows he will focus for 45 minutes straight on watching little hands find the star hole for the star block, over and over and over.  And clap each time he gets it in.  Then again, maybe it’s because she is confident that she will continue to learn interesting facts from him, empowering her to feel confident and wise.

He doesn’t sing lull them to sleep every night.  He doesn’t make their breakfasts.  He usually sleeps through their night wakings.  He rarely cleans up their messes.  And diapers?  Well, I've got it.

But I have a feeling they don’t care and won’t remember.

“I have the best Daddy I never ever had.”  

“My Daddy is super strong.”  

“I just want my Daddy.”  

Thanks, Chris.  You're our favourite.