Daddy

“I want to play with daddy,” my seven year old says every night after dinner.

Playing with daddy involves tackling, wrestling, screaming and running.  She makes up a game like dog – pretending to be dogs, the owner, or the next door neighbor, blanket world – getting a blanket thrown over your head if you don’t run by fast enough, dodge ball – trying to avoid the fast ball daddy throws at you.

(What a calm, peaceful time before bed, right!?  Okay, I’m mostly over it.  I still wish it could be a bit calmer . . . )

But here’s what I don’t get . . . Bedtime comes around and she wants nothing to do with dad.   Her dad, with whom she just played.  Her dad, who is the silliest, the funniest, the greatest.

“I want to read with mom. . . mom, can you rub my back?”

“What are you thankful for today, honey?” I ask at prayer time.

“Mom,” she says.  Every night.

Sorry dad.  Maybe tomorrow.

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