My daughter tears through the house, wearing a lime green shirt and brown leggings emblazoned with pink and purple flowers. I laugh. Ringlet curls dangle over her eyes. I groan.
Daddy’s in charge today. I’m laid up with a cold.
If I were steering the good-morning ship, Celia’s outfit would match, and her hair would be pulled back in tidy pigtails. But Daddy doesn’t like our girl in pigtails. He frowns on frou-frou. He prefers her beauty in its most natural, and most convenient, state. No ribbons. No bows. No frills.
So today, I say nothing when I see her hair all wild and matted on one side. Daddy has a right to dress his daughter without comment from the peanut gallery. I blow my nose and hope this cold runs its course.
Like many modern dads, Jason plays a more significant role than the dads of our parents’ generation. We don’t split diaper duties down the middle. On the outside, we’re Ward and June Cleaver. But when Jason is home, he’s involved to a degree Ward wouldn’t have dreamed, discussing bowel movements in riveting detail.
He wouldn’t want it any other way. Neither would I, especially when my throat feels like I swallowed a firecracker.
Still … part of me wishes Daddy would defer to me on decisions where I know best, such as Celia’s hair. I listen when he has an opinion about how much sugar she should ingest, but when it comes to my daughter’s locks … Daddy is way out of his territory.
Celia was born with a generous cap of silken hair. At seven months, I started pulling a few sprigs off her forehead with a navy bow. “Come on,” Jason complained. “I like her just the way she is. No bows.”
