Daddy's Little Stuffed Sausage

Some things are universal, especially when it comes to men, and especially when these men become Dads. The first is the difference in parental roles. While I take care of meeting most of Lucy's needs, Jamie gets to be the fun parent. He sings with her, dances, makes up silly songs. By the time I've changed her dirty bum, fed her three meals and snacks each day, managed to entertain/distract her with a variety of activities, and wrangled her to bed for her nap, I'm exhausted. My energy tank is depleted. As the Dad, Jamie has the luxury of stepping in just in time to play. This is one special joy of fatherhood.

The other joy involves their ability to remain blissfully unaware.

This seems to be true of fathers worldwide. Just a few weeks ago, I had a hilarious, and a bit frustrating, conversation with our French friend Imelda. She described the time her ex-husband took her daughter, Orianne, for a week long holiday. Imelda took the time to painstakingly pack each of Orianne's outfits, folding and matching pants and shirts, shoes and socks, assuming that she was making the process as simple as possible for her ex.

The next week, Orianne returned from the trip with some interesting photographs. One, in particular, stood out to Imelda. In it, little Orianne played with her cousins, smiling. But Imelda couldn't focus on her daughter's face. She only saw Orianne's shirt and pants--a pajama shirt and pants. "Orianne, why are you wearing your pajamas?" she asked. Her daughter looked at her in complete innocence, "Because Daddy told me to wear them. I tried to tell him that these weren't my clothes, but he didn't listen." We shared a laugh over her his folly (and ignorance!), but I quickly chimed in with an experience of my own.

Just months earlier, I had come home from a night of teaching, tired and ready for bed. When I peered in at my sleeping Luce, I noticed that she was curled in a little ball, her sleeper sleeves exposing her chubby hands and elbows. Upon closer examination, I realized that Lucy was stuffed into a sleeper that was two--maybe three--sizes too small. The poor babe couldn't stretch her legs. As I shook my head in irritation and changed her into something larger, I wondered how in the world Jamie didn't notice that he'd stuffed her into an outfit that obviously didn't fit. Could he be that oblivious? I also wondered how he managed to find the one outfit in her drawer that was too small. Out of 10 sleepers to choose from, he chose that one.

Tonight, he did it again.

Since it was Jamie's turn to give Luce her bath, I stayed downstairs getting her lunch ready for school. Earlier, I had folded all of her sleepers and put them in her drawer. I was confident Jamie wouldn't have any problem finding her something to wear. But when he brought her downstairs, I could only shake my head. She was stuffed into a sleeper that had to be FOUR sizes too small.

She couldn't bend her legs. Her feet were curled within the footies. Her round baby belly stretched the material around the zipper.

"What is she wearing?" I asked, exasperated. I hadn't seen that sleeper in months. "Where did you even find that?"

"In the clean clothes," he replied, seemingly oblivious to the little stuffed sausage in his arms. I shook my head and took Lucy from him.

"She's snugly," he said. "See, she can barely keep her eyes open."

"Probably from lack of oxygen," I replied as I took her upstairs and changed her clothes. As I unzipped her sleeper, her legs shot out and she began to kick them in relief.

"Your Dad..." I said. And we'll just leave it at that.