It would seem I have a Daddy’s girl, but only in a 2D sense. The real Daddy is of little interest at the moment, but the 2D Daddy reigns supreme.
On weekday mornings, it’s usual that Stu has to leave the house before I do. Grace and I stand dutifully at the window and wave bye-bye. “Ba bye Daddy, ba Byyyyeeeeeeeee” she cries as she waves farewell to her seemingly adored Father. The “Ba Byes” will usually last several minutes after actual departure. From that point on I am festooned with points and cries for her Daddy. There are several family photos on the walls of our home. It is now a daily occurence that each one must be visited in turn, pointed at, and Daddy identified. First comes the cry to be picked up. I pick her up. Then the little journey around the house to each and every photograph, with an eager little index finger immediately picking out her Dad. “Daddy!” She will then look at me for approval. “Yes, it’s Daddy” I chorus, smiling excitedly with her (despite being secretly a tad miffed that it’s never “Mummy”. We still haven’t had a proper “Mummy” from her.) It’s photo albums too. If one is spied, out it comes, and we painstakingly go through every . . . single . . . photo.
When perusing said photo albums, if it isn’t the word “Daddy” issuing forth from little lips, then it’s “Wassat?” (For those who read my previous post on this particular word – no, we’re still not past this stage.) Thus the hours are whittled away with the endless acknowledgement of Daddy, and me rattling off the names of the mundane and random people/objects that crop up in our photos.
“It’s your Grandma, Grace.”
“It’s a tree.”
“Yes. Indeed. Daddy.”
Yep. Any 2D image of the pater figure in our loving family unit is a source of endless fascination and verbal spontaneity from our wee one. Even pictures of men with glasses are fair game:
“No Grace, that’s Trevor McDonald.”
So when I see his truck heading down the street at tea time I grab our little girl and build the excitement of the home-coming.
“Who’s coming Grace? Is it Daddy? Is it? Look Daddy!”
My little girl beams like a true Daddy’s girl. Hands are clapped, bottoms are wiggled, and feet are stamped with delight at the prospect of Daddy walking through the door any second. As he walks up the drive, waves are exchanged betwixt father and daughter through the window and she rushes to the front door.
It is opened . . .
“Hello Grace!” Booms Daddy and bends down to scoop her up and give her a cuddle.
“NO!” Comes the reply, along with a bash in the face before running and hiding behind Mummy’s legs. Daddy is subsequently ignored for the next hour or so untill he is deemed worthy of some attention again.
What’s that about then?