A Boy and His Daddy

I love watching my son and my husband play together. When Daddy comes home after work, Ryan lights up like a Christmas tree. He gets so excited that he can’t even contain himself, and instead of running towards Daddy, he runs to the other side of the room, squealing, or he throws himself into Mommy’s arms and then peeks back at Daddy with a mile-wide grin. And he often follows the peeking by hurling himself out of Mommy’s arms and into Daddy’s. It a crazy love-fest between the two of them.

Ryan and I play together all the time, too, and he does love that, but there’s something different and very special about the way Daddy plays with him. The two of them play like…well, like boys. With Mommy, there are lots of hugs and kisses and naming different objects in the room and rolling balls back and forth. But with Daddy, there are chases and tickle fights and wrestling and knocking each other over and hurling balls directly at each other’s faces. There’s no fear of cracking one’s skull open or busting a lip against a table or breaking one’s nose running into a wall (well, no fear from the two of them – if Mommy is watching, that’s a whole different story). They play like boys. There’s no other way to describe it.

And they are so exactly alike. They giggle at the same things, they have the same grin, the same mannerisms, the same sparkly eyes looking for trouble. They are two peas in a pod.

And I couldn’t love either one of them more if I were twins.

 

Three on a Match

When I was a little girl, my mother would often make matching outfits for me, my older sister, and herself. Sometimes even our dolls would get in on the act with dresses made from scraps of our dresses. I loved dressing up like Mommy, and being the younger sister, I got the hand-me-downs as well so I could match Mommy twice as long, which delighted me to no end. So I suppose it was inevitable that Ryan would end up in outfits matching Daddy - and even Mommy as well.

Yep, that's all three of us wearing our matching Irish fisherman sweaters for the Reagle Irish Show. Daddy sings in the barbershop quartet every year, so he has a beautiful costume that includes a sweater embroidered with the words " 'tis himself".

I was filling in for the tenor at one performance, so I had a similar sweater boasting, naturally, " 'tis herself".

Well, since Daddy and Mommy already had matching outfits, of course Daddy was determined that Ryan get in on the act so we could be a complete set. We had some difficulties finding a wee Irish sweater (although Herb did find one that was actually TOO wee), but eventually Herb found an Irish import shop with a gorgeous hand-knit wool sweater in 24-month size. He brought it home on opening night of the show and I quickly stitched on the words " 'tis himself" and a shamrock in bright green thread.

Since the sweater is wool, Ryan did have a few objections when we first put it on him, and I was careful to put a long-sleeved onesie underneath so he wouldn't be too itchy. But once it was on we didn't have too many problems - until we tried to put him in the car seat, that is. The sweater is so bulky that we had to lengthen the straps as far as they would go and even then it was quite a stretch to wedge both baby and sweater into the seat and get him successfully strapped in. But as you can see, the result was well worth it. (Ryan might debate that point, but Daddy and Mommy definitely thought it was worth it.)

I have no doubt that I only have a few years to get away with the matching outfits before Ryan realizes how uncool it is and begins to object. (Boys get over that sort of thing much sooner than girls do, I'm afraid.) So I'd better take advantage of it while I can. But at least for now, I think he likes it.

Yes Sir, That's My Baby

My husband has never been shy about showing me off, and I just love that about him! When we were first dating and he introduced me to his various family members, I was much less nervous than I might have been because he was so obviously proud to show me off. The first time he asked me to have lunch with him at work when we got back from our honeymoon, he marched me around the office with delight, cheerfully introducing his "beautiful wife!" to all his co-workers. Even when we're out to dinner seeing no-one but strangers, I feel like he's beaming at passers-by like, "Look at this beautiful woman on my arm!" It's a marvelous feeling to be cherished that way.

When I was pregnant with Ryan, not surprisingly, Herb had a new resurgence of pride. What man doesn't get a primal sense of accomplishment and feel the need to show off the physical evidence of his virility? And again, I was proud to be the trophy. I've never felt as sexy and feminine as I did when I was pregnant, which is pretty impressive considering that I was sick as a dog for 8 months. For a woman like me who has always had a boyish figure, having curves was a nice change, even if one of those curves was a big belly. So everywhere we went, Herb was again beaming at passers-by with a sense of pride.

But now that Ryan is here, we both love bathing in the attention that he gets. I love when we're at the mall and someone walks past the stroller then turns around to look at him and smiles or tells us how cute he is. I love when older ladies come over to coo and ask how old he is or what his name is. I love when fellow moms exclaim at his chubby cheeks or his sweet dimples. But I love most of all watching Herb's reaction to all this attention. He nearly busts his buttons with pride in his little boy. We brought Ryan to church when he was just two weeks old, and as several people were straining for a peek, when we reached our pew near the front, Herb turned and held up the car seat so everyone could see, and the whole congregation burst into applause. I don't think I've ever been more proud than I was at that moment.

And even now, at three months, a bit of the novelty has worn off but the pride is still there. Tonight Herb has invited us to drop in on a barbershop rehearsal he's attending. Partly it's to show off to us what he's doing, but mostly I think it's to show us off the his friends. So I already know what he'll be thinking when we walk in: "Yes sir, that's my baby!"

Fathers and Sons

There's nothing quite so wonderful for a new mom as having a husband who is not only excited and actively involved with the baby (as most are), but who is also an experienced dad. In my case, my husband's experience is 17 years in the past, but like riding a bike, it comes back very quickly.

I'm not sure who adores whom more, whether it's Herb crushing on his son or Ryan crushing on his daddy. But it's obvious there's a mutual admiration society going on there.

Herb and his daughter have a very special relationship, and are probably closer than a lot of fathers and daughters are. After all, she lived with just him for 9 months out of the year for most of her life. And even before her parents were divorced, she got special time with him because her daycare was at his work so he could visit with her at lunch and got extra father-daughter time during his commute to and from work. Even aside from his devotion to her, spending that much time together creates a very close bond. But I think the combination of her growing up and not needing him in the same way that she used to and having a son instead of another daughter is making his bond with Ryan something special in its own way, too.

The relationship between daddies and daughters is, I think, based on a bit of mystery on both sides. A daddy has never been a little girl playing dress-up and having tea parties, or a tween girl dealing with clothes and makeup and hair, or a teenage girl trying to understand boys and the world of dating. And a girl doesn't usually look at her father and think about growing up to be just like him. So there's a natural disconnect there that can never be completely bridged.

Fathers and sons, on the other hand, have a different kind of connection. A daddy looks at his little boy and relives his own childhood: wrestling, rough-housing, playing with trucks and dirt and worms and dead things. He knows what it's like to be a boy because he's been one. He went through the embarassment of a changing voice, being shorter than the girls, growing a caterpillar on his upper lip, the public hazards of hormones, and asking a girl for a date for the first time. He can identify. And a son can look at his dad and get a glimpse of his own future, whether it be athletic prowess or a receding hairline. He can see what he may grow into. Even in babyhood, there's a special bond between a man and the child who will carry on his family name.

So I love watching my husband and son together. I love that they already have a special routine together. Every night at around 9pm, Herb takes Ryan upstairs for "tubby time". Sometimes I join them, but for the most part, I leave them alone for their male bonding time. Ryan grew out of the baby bathtub very quickly, so now he gets to flail around in the big tub, making waves and getting squirted with his many tub toys. He loves when Daddy sprays his chest with the showerhead and lets the water spritz over his face - he sticks out his tongue and tastes it, or if it's too much, scrunches up his face in distaste. Daddy even encourages him to close his eyes and hold his breath while he sprays a little water on his face, to get him ready for dabbling in the pool next summer. But the best part of tubby time is the hair dryer afterwards! When bathtime is over, Herb wraps him in one of his towels (the duck, the elephant, the turtle, the monogram - the choices are almost endless) and brings him to the changing table to diaper him and dress him for bed.

But before he gets dressed, he gets dried all over with the hair dryer. He knows the drill by now so as soon as he hears the dryer he melts into a relaxed puddle. When Herb dries his hair and the warm air blows around his face, he closes his eyes blissfully and makes funny mouth puckers as he waves his chubby arms and legs in ecstasy. Once he's snuggled into a warm sleeper, Herb shuts off the lights, turns on the music, settles into the rocking chair, and gives him his last bottle of the day before tucking him in his crib.

I must admit, I'm a little jealous that I'm not the one tucking him in every night. But I know that I have him all to myself almost every day, and I don't begrudge Herb his special daddy time. After all, he is a very special daddy.