Just Like a Woman

Tuesday’s Daddy Night was a success. Gert watched a Wiggles DVD while we ate popcorn and yelled at Jeff to wake up. Much popcorn was flung in glee. After the DVD was over, Matilda drug out Disney Scene It and we played a rousing game of trivial matters. I wiped the floor with her until she explained to me that I was supposed to let her win because she’s the daughter and I’m the dad. So, I let her win for a few turns and, well, she got bored. So we went back to playing it like it was a battle to the death. It was fun.

Gert was the official dice roller for my team. She did a great job and, I must say, provided an interesting strategic element. You see, when the dice would roll off the table, across the wooden floor, around the couch and down the stairs, it distracted Matilda enough to provide me with ample opportunity to sabotage the game.

Not that I would do that. Of course not.

But Gert got distracted and bored. Her baby started to cry so she decided to feed her. “Good,” I thought. “She’s a nurturer and she’s using those neat baby bottles we bought her for Christmas.”

“Daddy, I need a pillow so I can get comfortable.” I gave her a pillow and she climbed up onto the chair and got situated. She laid the baby across her lap, propped her arm on the pillow and began to lift up her shirt.

“What the . . .” How do I deal with this one? “Gert what are you doing?”

“My baby is hungry and she needs her boobies.” Her sitter is nursing right now, so it's an action she's familiar with, and Mommy did too, of course. But I never expected to see what I was seeing.

“Um . . . okay. I’m very happy that you are an avid supporter of breast-feeding. However, um . . . do you have any idea how disturbing this image is for daddy? You’re three and the sight of you sitting there sent him into a horrid vision of you at eighteen, dropping your baby off at your baby daddy’s before you stop off at your job at the strip club. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think pretending to breastfeed your doll will lead to teen pregnancy and slutty behavior. It’s just, as a dad, I need to keep a pristine image of you for the rest of your life. An image that’s frozen in spinny princess dresses and curly locks falling about your jam-stained face. I can’t think of you as a grown up just yet. And when you tell me that you’re offering boobies to the baby, I’m afraid it freaks me out. I’m glad you’re comfortable with breastfeeding, but you’re destroying my image of you awfully quickly.”

“It’s okay Daddy,” she said. “She’s not hungry anymore.” She hopped off the chair and ran to the kitchen.

Whew. That was weird.

She came back from the kitchen with a turkey baster, climbed onto the chair and hiked up her shirt again, placing the turkey baster strategically against her chest.

“NOW what are you doing,” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Silly Daddy! I have to save some nibbles for the baby for later!”

It was at that point I lost consciousness.