I don’t often write about your Daddy here. It occurs to me that this might be a mistake, me being the historian of the family and it being unlikely that your Daddy will tell you the extent of his love for you like I am about to.
He absolutely dotes on you. Everything you do is another feat of strength, show of genius or proof of courageousness. Even when you are stubborn, he says he likes that. He wants you to have a strong personality, to know what you want and stick to your guns. He still brags about the day you were born, and how the first thing you did was squeeze his index finger tightly.
Your voice is music to his ears. On the weekends he springs out of bed when you babble, eager to talk to you first thing in the morning. And on the weekdays, sometimes you will yell out for “Daddy” before you yell out for me, on the off-chance that it is the weekend and Daddy is home.
Your Daddy is determined to help you conquer any fears. He doesn’t like to see you scared or uncertain, so he makes it his job to introduce you to things that scare you, like the ocean. He picks you up, walks you into the water and holds on tight while you get used to the idea. And, before long, your tears turn to laughter.
When you are introduced to something new, Daddy makes sure you understand how it works. He tells you how to hold a fork and shows you how to put it in your mouth. He taught you to climb stairs safely. He encourages you to climb, to make it to the top of the jungle gym so you can go down the slide.
He is also extremely protective of you should you fall. “It’s these shoes,” he will say, looking for the culprit that hurt his baby. “My baby fell,” he will say, telling me about how you tripped and bit your lip. He feels your pain. A rash, a bruise, a scrape. The smallest ouchies worry him because he hates to see you in pain, and he will do anything to make it “better.”
He is your knight in shining armor, Miss Lexa. He will always be there for you, always.
He’s not afraid to be silly, to make funny noises or flop around on the ground and let you crawl all over him. He will play games with you. He will read books with you even though he doesn’t want you to affect his (nonexistent) accent. When you grab his hand, with the same strong grip as on your birth day, he will dance with you to the Yo Gabba Gabba breakdown.
I arrived home early recently and caught the two of you curled up in the chair, Daddy pointing out animals in one of your books while you rested your head contentedly on his shoulder. My little Daddy’s Girl. You already have him wrapped around your finger.