Daddy's little girl

The other night, Cory and I got an evening out when both girls spent the night at Cory's parents' house. The next morning, we went to go pick them up. Now, I'm used to Molly not wanting to come home from either of her grandparents' houses. She loves spending the night - spending the night anywhere. When we try to convince her to come home, she will cry and pout. I'm fairly certain this is the result of grandmas playing constantly with her and letting her get away with more than mommy lets her get away with. (I promise, she will not fall asleep watching a movie, no matter how long you let her!) I try to see this as a good thing; it's a good thing she loves to spend time with her grandparents and that she can see them so frequently because they live so close. Some days it is easier than others, especially when she is crying and screaming, "I don't want to go home. Home isn't fun!" (Really? All those toys you got for Christmas and all those hours of tea parties and puppet shows? Not fun?)

OK, so, I've prepared myself for this reaction from Molly. I've even prepared myself for her to completely ignore me and keep playing. Yup, I'd readied myself for all of these possibilities. Here's what I hadn't prepared myself for: Charlotte, my baby girl, decided the only one she wanted was Cory. We walk in the door, and she immediately puts up her arms for Cory. Not me. In fact, when I tried to take her out of Cory's arms, she immediately contorted her whole body and strained, practically jumping from my grasp toward Cory. Again, I try to tell myself that this a good thing. And, really, I know that it is. I know it is a good thing that Charlotte perks up and starts squealing from the time she hears the garage door open until she sees Cory walk up the stairs. I know it's a good thing that I'm not living as a housewife in the 40s or 50s when men just didn't help raise their own children. I don't think I would've made a very good 50s housewife for a myriad reasons, really. (I'm sure they'll be more posts on my shortcomings in homemaking skills later, so stay tuned.)

My head knows it is a good thing. My heart has to be convinced. Here's what my heart is saying: I carried you for 9 months. I threw up practically every day of your pregnancy. You were 9 and a half pounds, and I delivered you. LOVE ME BEST!

Because she doesn't seem to care about these things when I try to remind her of them, I have to learn to be happy with the current state of things. I smile, eyes watering, and hand her back to Cory. And, she gets a ridiculously cute grin on her face. I will learn to accept my place in the family hierarchy for now. Because, I can take heart knowing that when she's a teenager, Cory will be scaring the crap out of her boyfriends (or, knowing Cory, grilling her boyfriends about their financial stability). When this happens, she will come crying to me ... and I will finally be the favorite.

Daddy and his little girl.