Friday evening, after an eventful evening of taking the cat to the vet and strategizing Operation Washing Machine Replacement (completion date TBA*), it was bath time. An almost peaceful time where the kids splash and wear off that last piece of energy before pyjamas, story and bed time.
After I had finished washing their hair and letting them brush their teeth** Molly started chatting with me. "I love my daddy!" she said. My heart filled with parental joy and then sunk a bit. What about me, lady? I figured I'd give her time. When I told Chris what she had said he was thrilled. Over the next few days she routinely began proclaiming her love to daddy. I started feeding her whoppers, I'd grin widely and say, "I love you Molly". She just smiles coyly and blows me a kiss. Are you kidding me? She may as well have said, "Thank you." and then made excuses about why she couldn't hang out with me at story time, where she actually did insist that daddy read the story instead of me. Later I complained to Chris and he told me that I can't force it and smiled smugly.***
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*Yes, I am doing laundry at my parents house, again. It's like being 21 all over again, but with significantly more onesies to wash.
**AKA consume an ungodly amount of watermelon flavoured children's tooth paste.
***I hope this means that he's also going to get the first "I hate you!" from the girl, but I know now that milestone is tagged with my name all over it!
****Cause that's a healthy attitude towards competitive parenting, right, She won't say I love you to me, but at least she'd rather hold my hand than face impending death by mini van.