From the other room I hear him telling his father, “I’ll do it myself”. I come into the bathroom to see them in the shower. Ledger is holding the sponge while Barry stands there, patiently instructing him. “hey buddy, you forgot the back of your arm”.
I come home from work to find them in a blanket fort, laughing hysterically.
We go to the pool and he clings to his father, completely trusting him to keep him safe. He jumps off the side into his father’s arms, comes up sputtering, but smiling.
I turn into the driveway to see him pedaling towards me, propped up on pillows so his feet can reach the pedals. His father beaming behind him.
We go to a festival and I look over at them. Ledger beaming up on his shoulders. My husband is literally bearing the burden of him.
He heads off to work in the morning, but before he goes, he picks him up. My giant baby, whose feet hang halfway to the floor. He picks him up and holds him so close, and so tight that I know Ledger will be able to feel that hug all day.
I always think of myself as the ‘better’ parent. I’m the one who reads the books. I’m the one who worries about schedules. I’m the one who researches and creates a plan for potty training or preschool or family outings. I’m the one who cleans his room, buys his clothes, makes his doctor appointments, and worries about his nutritional intake. But that is wrong, I'm not better, I'm just different. We have different strengths.
He’s the fun one. The one who laughs. The realistic one. The one who tells me to take a deep breath. The one who plays tackle and tickle. He’s the one who bathes him, scrubbing at his face while making a silly sound to distract him. The one who literally carries him when he can’t carry himself. He is playful and stern. He is so, so loving and affectionate.
We could both me more patient, more engaged, more patient. But what he does….the father he is….we are both so incredibly, incredibly lucky.
I come home from work to find them in a blanket fort, laughing hysterically.
We go to the pool and he clings to his father, completely trusting him to keep him safe. He jumps off the side into his father’s arms, comes up sputtering, but smiling.
I turn into the driveway to see him pedaling towards me, propped up on pillows so his feet can reach the pedals. His father beaming behind him.
We go to a festival and I look over at them. Ledger beaming up on his shoulders. My husband is literally bearing the burden of him.
He heads off to work in the morning, but before he goes, he picks him up. My giant baby, whose feet hang halfway to the floor. He picks him up and holds him so close, and so tight that I know Ledger will be able to feel that hug all day.
I always think of myself as the ‘better’ parent. I’m the one who reads the books. I’m the one who worries about schedules. I’m the one who researches and creates a plan for potty training or preschool or family outings. I’m the one who cleans his room, buys his clothes, makes his doctor appointments, and worries about his nutritional intake. But that is wrong, I'm not better, I'm just different. We have different strengths.
He’s the fun one. The one who laughs. The realistic one. The one who tells me to take a deep breath. The one who plays tackle and tickle. He’s the one who bathes him, scrubbing at his face while making a silly sound to distract him. The one who literally carries him when he can’t carry himself. He is playful and stern. He is so, so loving and affectionate.
We could both me more patient, more engaged, more patient. But what he does….the father he is….we are both so incredibly, incredibly lucky.
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