Daddy's Little GirlSelena Mills
Without the risk of sounding like I think I’m far too lucky, the truth of it is — I am. But even more so are my children. Because this bearded feller? He’s made from very good (the best) stock.
I revel in watching the mister with his babies, noting the distinct difference in how he is with each of them.
Abby gets all of his most tender caresses and words, and patience. Never-ending calm and loving patience. He’ll walk the floors with her, bouncing, rocking, singing, humming, any and all of it, when I am at my wits end and the colic seems to have taken over my brain and soul.
Sometimes I watch and listen, but mostly take great comfort in knowing he is distinctly tuned in to her responses, always giving her what she needs.
He tag-teams the workdays with me (we both work from home) without complaint or distress. It’s taken a few weeks to get into a sort-of (as much as one can with the unpredictable world that is baby-dom) routine wherein we take turns and somehow manage to get in a decent workday — AND hang-out/care for our little girl!
A true father/daughter relationship was but a mystery to me. Until now. Now, the sharp, painful hole that once resided where all of those heartbroken feelings clung about, are now filled up with love. I may not have had that sort of father/ daughter relationship with my real dad, or my step-fathers. But now …
Now I have a daughter who has it all, and my brain? The part that would cloud over when ever thinking about my ‘real’ dad — or memories from those other ones? Truthfully? It just doesn’t hurt as much. Not nearly. In fact, it has evolved into a higher state of simply being in the present looking forward to the future; no longer dwelling in the past.
Oh life. Oh my children. You little heart-healers, you. You teach me things every day. Not just little things. Great, big, soul-awakening things.
To Abby? To my mister? Chi meegwetch. (Thank-you). Both. SO much.