Playing with my two-year-old daughter on a Tuesday afternoon in January, I said to her, “You know, something? I think you are my ticket to the perfect date.”
If my next door neighbor were a lonely stay-at-home-mom she could watch me through the kitchen as I entertained my little girl. How cute is that? Am I not the ideal provider? I imagined her watching me wistfully through her window from across the yard.
“Yes, my little Naya, you are my ticket,” I whispered, whiskers tickling her ear.
She giggled uncontrollably and touched my nose. “Nothe!”
“Yes, that’s daddy’s nose.”
Wow, I thought. She really listens to me when I talk to her.
“Yes, keep it up, little one. I’ll be irresistible to the imaginary stay-at-home-mom next door.”
She turned serious for a moment, crooking her head to the side.
“Eye,” she said softly, touching my right eyelid, causing it to shut.
“Yes, that’s daddy’s eye,” I muttered, wondering now if I was the character in her imaginary game.
“Papa!” she demanded, the Romanian word for ‘food,’ not ‘father.’
I gave her the tip of a carrot at the edge of my plate, convinced she would spit it out.
“Mm-mmmm!” she exclaimed in delight.
She likes my cooking, I mused in wonderment.
“Papa?” she asked, only this time, she grabbed a carrot and offered it to me.
She was now the provider.
“Mm-mmmm,” I answered, nodding my head emphatically like a marionette.
She googled proudly and patted me on the head.
I looked at her, momentarily forgetting my imaginary would-be consort, and ran down my mental count:
She laughs at my jokes.
She listens to me when I’m talking.
She says the most interesting things.
She’s attentive.
She likes my cooking.
She’s not ashamed to be seen with me.
Playing with my two-year-old-daughter on a Tuesday afternoon in January, I said to her, “You know something? I think you are the perfect date.”
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