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As I step out the shower, I can hear my daughter sobbing in her crib. Quickly dressing I head for her nursery, passing my husband, David, on the way. “Her pacifier fell out of her crib, and she doesn’t want me to pick it up,” he rolls his eyes letting out a light huff as he continues his trek down the hall.
As I approach her crib, she tells me through sobs, “Daddy picked up my passie…I want Mommy pick up my passie.” A long sigh escapes me, frustrated at the sheer depth of her needed attachment to me. It’s exhausting for me and heartbreaking for my husband, who loves this child to a level of obsession.
She is the center of David’s universe, as I am the center of hers.
After calming my daughter and tucking her back into the crib, I return to my husband. The look of hurt evident on his face, he asks me, “Why does she do that to me?” I shrug.
At night I lay in bed replaying those desperate sobs in my head, worrying about my next business trip and what will happen when mommy isn’t here to pick up her pacifier.
Our precious 2-year-old adores her father. When he travels on business, she continually asks for him. In the mornings, she giggles when he enters her room, but once the sun has set and the day is coming to an end, she needs—and demands—only mom.
In the hours I’ve spent pondering the reasons behind this behavior, I’ve come to a few conclusions. My daughter and I are particularly close; I understand most toddlers prefer one parent to another when worried or scared. Nothing of her behavior is out of the ordinary.
But there is an aspect to this natural desire to cling to a particular parent, that perhaps I had not considered.
As the day winds down and she faces a long night alone in her crib, my daughter looks to me for comfort, perhaps not only because I’m the soft, warm, primary caretaker, but also because at the edge of night’s darkness she wants to believe the world is a safe place. And I tell her that it is.
As her mother, I promise her false security, endless ice packs for overexaggerated injuries, a day of Disney videos when she’s feeling ill, protection from her two baby brothers. Within the radius around me, she lives outside the rules of the universe where friends in daycare scratch and toys get broken.
My husband provides her no such bubble.
His methodology is far more based in realism and honesty—if you take your brother’s toy, he will probably bite you, and it will hurt.
Her—possibly fake—tears do not affect him; he will not rock her for twenty minutes because she cannot sleep. And if she didn’t choose a sippy cup rapidly enough, he is going to decide for her.
My husband is preparing her for the real world, where time isn’t infinite, and the laws of gravity do not center around her little being. The world where she will have to stand up for her rights vocally and perhaps physically. The world that will try to knock her down, break her heart, while demanding from her quick thinking and fast action.
He’s playing a crucial role in her development, and one day she will be a strong, capable person who has an honest view of how this world works.
When my natural desire to wrap my daughter in a cloak of security becomes too exaggerated, I can rely on him to lend his voice and normalize my extreme nature.
Thinking back to our evening rituals where mommy must be the last one to tuck her in at night it makes clear sense to me now. We all want our dreams to take place in a world like that which I have created for her, somewhere safe and overly fair.
She then punishes him today for that which she will thank him for as an adult.
I feel my body relax, ensured that my business trip might be a healthy experience for my daughter and as I look across the bed at my husband’s sleeping face, I know that while he may not be the primary person she goes to for comfort, he is the person that comforts me.
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