A sea of women. Every day my husband is surrounded by women: at home and in the office. Even our dog is female. You’d think he’d be in touch with his feminine side. You’d be wrong.
Seconds ago he left the house with our two-year-old. She was wearing brown pants covered in white dog hair; a t-shirt that she’s growing out of quickly; her mouth looked like Joker’s from the red popsicle she’d just eaten; and her hair hadn’t been brushed all day – come to think of it, neither had her teeth. The only saving grace was her new winter coat. At least that covered some of the scragginess.
Did I say something? Of course, what kind of borderline type ‘A’ female would I be if I didn’t? I kept my comments light and bemused; because I was. How is it that he can walk out of the house with her looking like that?
His response was to point out last night’s taco stain on his sweatpants and say, “She’s going out with me, not you.”
There still is a flag on the play, but fair enough. He was the one running around, getting her ready to go, not me. Could I have handed him the baby and found “going out” clothes? Absolutely. But what would our daughter have learned? That her mum is a control freak and doesn’t trust Daddy? That looks are important? Of course the answers are: Yes. I like things a certain way, doesn’t everybody? No. I trust my husband. And Yes. Looks are important – sort of – don’t want people thinking we’re heathens.
She is two. I firmly remind myself, watching them run to the mini-van, splashing in puddles along the way. There will be plenty of time for hair fussing and belly-aching over clothes. Heck, she’ll even reject going out with her ol’ ma and pa one of these days.
But, before I age her into a surly teenager, I relish the simple facts: she’s excited and she’s with her daddy. Naturally, she’ll come home with vivid stories and mini-donut on her new jacket.
