"Play with dad"

Every night after my daughter gets out of the bath, she excitedly repeats one thing: “Play with dad! Play with dad!”

She gets dried and dressed, then darts down the hallway cackling as she runs away from me. We have a standoff, her at one end of the hall and me at the other. We stare at each other, then she gets a little grin, a twinkle of trouble in her eye, and takes off away from me. I sprint towards her, “I’m gonna get you,” I say in a playful voice. She stops in her tracks, waiting for me to catch her, then falls into a fit of laughter as I scoop her up and carry her to our room to play with dad.

I plop her on our bed next to my husband, and she shouts, “Play with dad!” They start playing, and I start cleaning up after the hurricane that is our daughter. Squeals of joy come from our room along with an incredulous, “Ew, dad!” after my husband raspberries her belly.

I finish cleaning up and make my way back to our room. As I walk in, I see my daughter falling through the air and land on the bed with a huge smile. My husband and daughter both look over at me, pretending they weren’t doing anything. These aerial maneuvers are a regular part of their playtime routine. My daughter tells me, “One more minute,” with one little finger raised in the air.

“Okay!” I walk out of the room and find one more toy to put away so she can get one more minute. I come back in, and she quickly says, “One more minute, mom.”

Eventually, the “one more minutes” run out, and it’s time for bed. I carry her from our bed to hers. She picks out two books to read and then tells me, it’s “time to sleep,” as she snuggles Doggie.

After she gets comfortable, she tells me it’s “time to sing.” She’s the bedtime task master. I start singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star but get interrupted, “No, another one.” I take a breath and start singing You Are My Sunshine.

“No, another one.”
I try again with This Old Man.
“No, another one.”

I feel like an outdated jukebox. I don’t have any songs she wants to hear. Eventually, we settle on Frère Jacques and Golden Slumbers by the Beatles.

Once we’re done singing, she says, “Time for Bubba.” On cue, her brother comes in to say good night. Then, “Time for dad.” I say good night, and my husband enters the room, this time for sleeping, not playing.

I close the door behind me, happy that she’s finally settling down. Then I hear, “Ew, dad! More!!” as my husband gives her another raspberry.