Around his first birthday, my boob-loving baby looked up and realised there was another person living in our house. That person was Daddy and he was awesome. I have been the loser of our family ever since.
Much as I love cuddles when my cheeky boy is sad, scared or hurt, I wouldn’t mind some excited squeals when I walk through the front door. I mean, I brewed the kid for nine months and then pushed him out of my body in a brawl that lost me full custody of my bladder. A wee bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray. Pun intended.
Look, I do know my child loves me. He even likes me sometimes. But there’s no doubt, I’m the firm second choice in our house. It’s hard not to take it personally when your two-year-old pushes you out of your chair, screeching “Mummy NO! Daaaddy!!” because you’re too intolerable to occupy the same airspace as him.
I’m like that stale Arrowroot biscuit living on the floor of your car. I’m there in case you’re stranded on the side of the road and starving, but I’m certainly not your first choice for a snack.