Fatherhood

Once the beloved sprained/pulled/strained/bruised/whatever her ankle, the flight of stairs to our room became an insurmountable obstacle.  The upshot of this was that the Dot and I had the room all to ourselves.

The crib in said room is an old-school steel job with round balusters, giving it a decidedly prison-esque look.  Every time I went to get her, I had to fight the urge to start singing “Folsom Prison Blues.  I did hum “The Wall” by Jim Croce.  I really wanted to hand her a sippy cup to see if she’d drag it across the bars.

Remarkably, a rambunctious toddler and a famously sonorous snorer managed to both get ample sleep in the same room.  Waking up, however was a 3 to 4 step process.  The Dot would wake up, waking me, fidget a while, then—if ignored—would doze back off, at which point, so would I.  Rinse and repeat until the Dot goes >3 minutes of fidgeting.

On the first day, the Dot stood up in her cell, grabbed the bars, and started hopping up and down.  Eventually, I rolled over.  Since she has been alone in her room for a year now, my presence surprised her.  In mid hop.  She landed, cocked her head to the side with a puzzled expression and said in a decidedly inquisitive voice, “Dada?”

It is worth noting that the Dot has had a few communications hang-ups.  Putting the proper inflection together with words is an achievement.  This display of appropriate tone is an accomplishment, and I was exceedingly proud in that moment of her progress.

Or maybe I just thought it was cute.  Really, really cute.  Especially when she then said “DADA!” and started jumping higher.

This morning I was informed by the Beloved that the Dot was disappointed that I wasn’t the one that came to get her.

I have a Daddy’s girl.