Propaganda on my behalf

Melody has been a "Daddy's Girl" since, oh, about 14 minutes after she was born. Even in the hospital she slept snuggled up on his chest. Sure she would tolerate me for the time needed to nurse, but as soon as that belly had a thimbleful of milk in it--BAM--off to bearded pastures. If she had had any idea, in utero, of what father figure was in store for her, she would have been premature in her rush into Daddy's arms.

Then there was the onslaught of Daddy's Little Girl sleepers, burp cloths and bibs. Not to mention all the infant hours passed in the sling, snuggled up to daddy, staring at the goatee as Dowlan worked from the house for the first years of her life.

I get it, I really do. In her quest to be held 'up high,' Daddy has a foot on me. In her desire for more jumps/spins/twirls, Daddy has more stamina. Daddy's bedtime stories have cooler pirates and are more likely to repeated ad infinitum than Mommy's will ever be.
Mommy has rules. Heck, mommy enforces the rules. Mommy makes you eat vegetables. Mommy makes you go to bed. Mommy *gasp* makes you wear clothes. Got it, got it got it. Everyone likes Dowlan more. Even I like Dowlan more.

But the second I found out I was expecting Charlie, I bared my teeth and announced, "This One's Mine." Charlie is with me so far. His first word was (and most frequent word is) Mama. Followed by Boof, Poop, Bye, but never, ever, not even once have his precious baby lips uttered The D Word.

Once Dixie entered the picture, the scales tipped again in his favor. It took *maybe* eight minutes to figure out who to side with. I still don't know that she really trusts me, but her Love for Daddy is pure, complete, whole and unending.

While it is fun to be a WONG (Wife Of Nice Guy) it does get a little old. Heck, I may have Charlie on my side now, but he is also a baby. Those babies are incredibly fickle creatures, you know, so I can't say that I can bank on this lasting.

This is why I have begun the campaign. The Onslaught of Mommy Propaganda (OMP) has begun. It began with matching shirts for the girls that say I (heart) MOM on them. This was a good start, but they soon clearly showed a preference for their Daddy-related gear. Charlie also has a whole series of "I love mommy" but, considering that he cannot read, pick his clothing, dress himself or even use the remote control properly, it isn't enough.

Phase II of OMP was the introduction of a phrase oft-heard in our home: Mommy Thinks of Everything. An example from this weekend's road trip:
D: Hey, did you remember to pack bibs for Charlie?
G: Yup.
D: Oops! I didn't grab my MP3 Player.
G: Oh, I got it. And do you know why?
D: Because Mommy thinks of everything?
G: You got it.
D: Hey, mommy-who-thinks-of-everything: Why is one of our carseats empty back there. Don't we have three kids now?
G: Refer to the codicil.

The codicil to the rule is that 'there is only one mommy.' Can I really be expected to remember everything, especially such insignificant details?

OMP, Phase III--I once told the girls:
Girls, I am tired of hearing you say 'thank you.' From now on, I want you to say, 'Mommy, you're the Greatest.'
This plan worked for a really long time, until they decided in their infinite post-toddler wisdom that I needed to share The Greatest. At first, when I only had to share with Santa Claus, I figured that was tolerable. After all, he really only comes around once a year, and who wouldn't share with Santa? Now that I am sharing The Greatest with Santa, Daddy, Grandma, Oma, Aunt Jackee and *ahem* God, I substantially less special.

So I am off to plot Phase IV. I *will* win.


Anonymous said...

Love It!!!!! Mom's are the greatest, but I too was a Daddy's girl. I'll be rooting for you. Hope to see you at Christmas.

Anonymous said...

LMAO! I did all the shit work for 4 years and then he turned on me.

But I'm not the one who has to take him camping...

Deb said...

I'm with you. I love my nice husband, but just once, I'd like someone to like me better. Besides the dry cleaner, at whom my husband yells constantly.