To be a Daddy


These two pictures hang above my desk. They say an awfully lot without my needing to interpret them for you, but let me talk awhile anyway. My husband is not just a father to our children. He’s their Daddy. Sam, who is a Mama’s boy, has lately started demanding his Daddy-hugs at bedtime again and saying, in a worried little voice, “I like Daddy best.” He doesn’t yet understand the ebb and flow of a parent-child relationship, and he worries that he’s hurting me. He always seems surprised by my delight. I tell him, “That’s wonderful. I love you, and sis, and Daddy best.”

Sam’s a carbon copy of Scott. Everyone who sees him recognizes the resemblance at the same age. It’s more than just the blue eyes. It’s the shape of his chin, the height of his cheekbones, and the way he smiles when he isn’t paying attention. It’s in the way he freezes up if asked for a photograph; I’m told Scott has years of wooden-posed pictures to attest to his awkward relationship with the camera in childhood.

Caroline looks more like me, but she’s got Scott’s teeth and ears. And she is Daddy’s girl. By fall, she’ll have glasses, and then she’ll look more like both of us, but she whispered to me the other day that she wants a big pair, “Like Dad’s,” and I smothered laughter and told her we’d see what we could find when the time comes.

Scott plays with them endless games of hide-and-seek (my least favorite game ever in the entire universe). He taught Caroline painstakingly how to play Go Fish and Uno. And then, unbeknownst to the rest of us, Sam learned both games from watching them play. (We didn’t realize Sam knew how to play Uno until he unleashed his skills on Miss Tara the other night.)

He reads endless bedtime stories, indulges requests for “More parm-e-an (parmesean) cheese” at dinner, and hovers over the pancake griddle lest Sam’s pancakes brown in the least. He does household chores (all of them), survives my worst outbursts, and works his ass off outside the home as well.

The childhood he and I are giving our children is different from both of our own, not always, but mostly in good ways. Scott is a Daddy, and he’s my husband. I love him more than I can say in a few words on my blog. Happy Father’s Day Scott. I love you. We love you.

About jesterqueen:
Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.


To be a Daddy — 13 Comments

    • My husband is a wonderful, wonderful father. I’m listening right now to a game in which he shines a flashlight in the kids’ ears and tells them what he sees in there. I suspect he learned this from his own Dad as a child.

  1. Absolutely priceless photos! It takes a lot to be a good Daddy, your kids are lucky they have a father so involved in their lives. Happy Father’s Day to Scott.

    • And now he’s off to look for weird things they have hidden for him in honor of father’s day, a variation on my least favorite game.

    • Thanks! Scott is an amazing man. He’s a lot like me. He’s a truth teller and someone who doesn’t flinch from reality. He really grounds me in that reality when I’m at my ut-wildest.

  2. Jessie, I hope Scott had a perfect Father’s Day. These pictures are great. No wonder you have them in one of your most inspiring places.

  3. Reading this made me so happy. I wish I’d had a Daddy like your husband. OK that sounded weirder than I meant it.

    • Haha! No, it made perfect sense! My Dad was a good guy, but not the world’s greatest Dad. My husband is kicking fatherhood’s ass and taking names (especially when it kicks his ass back!!)