Beloved daughter,
Recently, there has been no doubt as to who your favorite parent is. Officially Mother’s Day was last Sunday, but in your eyes, it’s Mother’s Day every day. You choose Mom to cuddle with, Mom to do your hair, Mom to brush your teeth, Mom to take you to dance, Mom to pack your snack.
Part of your preference comes from your tremendous similarity with Mom. You both love to sing and dance. You’re both animated storytellers. You and Mom both spark with enthusiasm but are as sleepy as pandas. You both have an exceptionally high threshold for physical affection—or, rather, no threshold at all. If we didn’t have plans, I think you two might cuddle in bed all day. You have a certain resonance with Mom, like two purring cats, that’s just not the same with me.
Part of your preference may also be due to scarcity: you get access to me all the time. By default, I am the one who drives you around, makes your lunch, runs your bath, does your bedtime—all the humdrum stuff. I’m boringly abundant; Mom’s a precious mineral. I’m Crock-Pot chili; Mom is Slurpees at 7-11.
And part of it is our tendencies as parents. I’m more of a stickler; Mom, more of a spoiler. I lean toward “no, not now”; Mom, toward “sure, why not.” I pack you a fruit, a veg, and a grain; Mom throws in a candy and a sticky note with a cartoon dog.
You know, the more I describe it, the less surprising it is that you prefer her to me.
It hasn’t always been so. When you were a baby, no one could put you down for naps or bedtime like I could. I had the touch. There aren’t many arenas of life where I can say I am literally the best on the planet, but that was one of them.
I’ve also always served an important utilitarian function in your life. While you cherish Mommy, you depend on me. If you need to be carried, I’m the man for the job. If you wake up crying, I’m the first responder.
When you were smaller, there was a long while when you wouldn’t wipe yourself on the potty. Who’d you call on? That’s right. Dependable daddy. (There’s probably a Depends joke in there somewhere, but Mommy doesn’t like that kind of humor, and this letter is ultimately for her, so you’ll have to use your imagination.) For months, you had a charming (that’s parent-speak for obnoxious) habit of waking me up early in the morning, shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” from the porcelain throne until I groggily came to your rescue.
That’s my niche right there—emergency morning wipes. Mommy can’t rival me in that department.
I suppose my role, then, is somewhere between Superman and a plumber. I’m a fixer. Is there a problem? Call 1-800-HERO-DAD. For all other concerns, needs, and comforts, dial 1 for Mom.
I am exaggerating to an extent. You and I have loads of fun. We go on adventures. You give me amazing cuddles. By all measures, you adore your daddy.
It’s a matter of comparison, though. You’d probably rate me as an 8 or so. Mommy? Turn that dial up to 11.
One way I know this is that you tell me. If we ask who your favorite person is, it’s usually a tie between Mommy and one of your preschool friends. I’ve yet to be nominated. Maybe I’ll ask on Father’s Day.
Another way I know this is that I am capable of doing wrong, whereas Mommy is not. When I make a decision you disagree with—typically withholding or delaying your access to a candy or toy—you inform me of my grievous sin with a simple phrase: “bad Daddy.” Well, it’s probably spelled more like “BAD DADDY!!!!” The worse the offense, the more “bads” I am awarded. I haven’t had the composure in such moments to count just how many “bads” you’ve issued, but I am pretty sure the other day you called me a “bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, BAD DADDY!!!” Come to think of it, the reason for the reprimand was that I wouldn’t take you to see Mommy (who, by the way, was on the other side of town, with our one and only vehicle-—it would have required a six-mile walk at bedtime for me to become “good” Daddy).
By contrast, there is no such thing as “bad Mommy.” The phrase has never been uttered; most likely, it’s never formed in your mind.
I relay all this not to complain or petition. I don’t disagree with your assessment: Mom is an 11 on my scale, too. She is well-deserving of her spot on our lists of favorite people in the world.
Your preference for Mom may reveal something deeper, though. When I quit my job nearly four years ago to stay home with you and brother, there was a sense of egalitarianism about it: any parent, father or mother, is capable of caring for their kids and managing a household. At its core, there is no inherent reason why I as a father ought to be the main breadwinner, just as there is no reason why Mom ought to be the main homemaker. And that’s absolutely true. If ever a man does earn an 11 in your eyes, I hope that he does his fair share and more to care for you and whatever family you might one day create, in whatever ways you need.
But my experience as a stay-at-home dad has also highlighted the strong complementarity of parenting. As unified as we are, Mom and I live out our identities as parents differently. Whether we are acting out inborn gender differences or manifesting socialized roles or simply operating from two distinct personalities, Mom offers to you and brother a kind of love that is most concisely described as motherly. No matter how loving I am, she is more of the nurturing and empathetic presence in the family; no matter how gentle I am, she relates to you in a softer manner.
I don’t mean to say that I’m not nurturing or empathetic, nor that Mom is delicate or fragile. My best moments as a father come when I show you care and empathy, and Mom embodies all kinds of strength. But at a profound level, Mom is for you the very image of comfort, an incarnation of security and warmth.
The images she and I take on as your parents make me think of the multifaceted nature of the Trinity, a God who is at once a consuming fire and the prince of peace, who reveals himself as frightful, booming thunder and as gentle, unseen wind. Scripture describes God the Father disciplining us as his own children for our edification (Hebrews 12.5-11); it also compares the restored Jerusalem to a mother comforting her children (Isaiah 66.11-13). Again, I’m not aligning myself with the thunderous power of God; that is far from my aspirational image of fatherhood. But it does strike me that just as we gravitate toward different aspects of the divine, you gravitate toward different aspects of me as your father and Mom as your mother.
Of course, you’re not thinking about the Trinity when you say Mommy is your favorite. In fact, there’s nothing much to think about; she’s your Mommy, and you love her. It’s that simple. Earlier this year, for a Valentine’s Day project, I asked you and brother what you appreciate about Mom, and your answers were painfully nondescript.
“How would you describe Mommy?” I asked.
“She has brown hair,” you answered.
I tried a different approach. “What is something Mommy is good at?”
You thought for a moment before offering, “She is good at working.” Not exactly the kind of praise I was after.
I find that you are much better skilled at showing Mommy the size of your love than you are at explaining the reasons for it. You have no need for reasons; they are as self-evident as air. But the size of your love is something you feel. It overflows from your body in hugs and cuddles, leaps out of your mouth in a joyous exclamation of “Mommy!” when you see her, spills out of your hands in the form of drawings and cards and necklaces.
When I was fishing for Valentine’s Day material, I asked your brother what he was thankful for about Mommy. Though his answer remained nondescript in a way, it also said all that needs to be said: “That she’s my Mommy.”
What a simple and penetrating truth. No one else can fill that role. No one else gets to sit in that particular seat of honor in your heart.
One day you won’t cling to her like you do now, just as one day you won’t call 1-800-HERO-DAD so often. But you’ll always and forever have just one mother—your apple-of-your-eye, full-of-life, cat-like, hair-styling, teeth-brushing, dancing and singing, slushies on a Saturday, “sure, why not,” unparalleled source of comfort and love.
So at least for now, you’re spot on—around here, it’s Mother’s Day every day.