When parents hear their little ones say “Dada” for the first time, it generally sends them into a state of euphoria, broadcasting to Facebook friends and Twitter followers alike about their little whiz kid. However, I was less than thrilled when my daughter uttered her first “Dada.” While I’ll admit that it was kind of cute to hear my daughter gleefully smiling and babbling at her father, there was a small part of me that was slightly resentful that “Mama” didn’t come first. Ok, who am I kidding? I was pissed off!
I’m generally not one to keep score, but I couldn’t help but feel like I deserved a little more gratitude for all of the physical and emotional sacrifices I’d made in her short life. Dealing with five months of bed rest, 12 hours of drug-free labor and 10 stubborn extra pounds is no walk in the park. So I couldn’t help but roll my eyes in disgust every time my husband bragged that our daughter called for him every morning when she woke up.
For the first few months, my husband’s work schedule forced him to miss lots of feedings, baths and naps. Things that were tedious and at times maddening chores to me were monumental events from which he felt excluded. It broke my heart every time he’d call to check on us during one of his evening breaks. But I also begrudged him when he laughed as I sobbed that the baby had been refusing to eat anything other than strawberry yogurt at every meal.
You could argue that my daughter honors me in her own way. It is both annoying and flattering that a simple trip to the bathroom can incite a screaming fit, while my husband can leave the room without so much as a blink of an eye. As a stay-at-home mom, my daughter is literally attached to my hip, 24-hours a day. I’ve learned to navigate the city streets carrying 20 extra pounds in a Baby Bjorn. In just over a year, we have formed a unique and special bond. Along with the dirty diapers and temper tantrums, we get to enjoy sunny days at the playground, Mommy & Me classes and spontaneous tickle fights.
It seems only fair that Dada gets to have this one thing. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that there are moments when I get fed up and long for adult conversation (or at least a nice, strong drink), but I’ve been incredibly blessed to be able to watch my daughter learn and grow each day. I guess she doesn’t have to say my name right now. I’m always there.
