AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Banished DATE: 4/30/2004 05:11:00 PM ----- BODY:

I have been banished. My three year-old daughter will no longer permit me to read her bedtime stories. Daddy and only Daddy will do. Never mind that I practically have "The Lorax" memorized at this point -- she tearfully insists that I leave the room come story time. Hoping this is merely a phase that will pass, I'm struggling to accept it, to not make too much of this sudden drop in my popularity. Instead I try to content myself with brushing her teeth, tucking in her stuffed animals, and sharing long hugs and cuddles. One evening not long ago, I scooped her up and squeezed her tight. "You are my precious wonderful, special little girl, and I love you so much. More than anything." I told her. After a long, thoughtful pause she replied, "Yes. And I love my daddy." My husband is a stay at home father -- a job he takes very seriously. The moment Olivia was born he practically snatched her out of my arms. For the first few weeks of her life I felt more like a wet nurse than a mommy. "Is she finished eating? Give her to me! She wants her daddy!" Dancing out of the room, he'd whisk her off for a nap, a walk, or a snuggle. She spent most nights sleeping on his chest; most days cradled in his arms. He bathed her, dressed her in outfits that he personally selected, took countless photos, and insisted that she accompany him on every errand. I had to fight for time with her -- we used to actually wrestle over whose turn it was to hold her next. At the end of my maternity leave, while I sniffled and cried at the prospect of being separated from her, he confessed that he couldn't wait for me to return to work so that he could finally have the baby all to himself. Mark's decision to stay home made perfect sense for us. My career in syndicated radio offered a combination of paycheck, flexibility and opportunity that his career in engineering couldn't match. More importantly, he wanted to be home. Mark had been married once before and has a son, now eleven. Unable then to stay home with his infant boy, he grieved for those precious lost baby days. He vowed that this time, things would be different. He, and not a sitter or a daycare provider, would be witness to the first smiles, words, and steps of his child. I was happy for my daughter, who was blessed with a devoted, involved father -- something I'd longed for and didn't have. She'd be better for it, stronger and more self confident. I was happy for Mark, who clearly had the patience and heart for the daily drama and exhaustion of chasing a baby. But, to be totally honest, I felt sorry for myself as I left the house each morning to go to work. There were trips to the park -- while I sat in meetings. Outings for walks or smoothies -- while I returned phone calls and waded through e-mail. Each day I'd come home to reports of new discoveries, new skills, new favorites, and new adventures. I felt awfully left out. Worse, even when I was home, Olivia wanted Daddy. Whether it was a boo-boo on her knee or a bump on her head, mine was rarely the name she called first. Which might partially explain my fierce determination to continue nursing: it was one thing I could give her that nobody else could. I looked forward to feeding her, craving those moments of warm, drowsy intimacy with my rapidly growing baby girl. "At least it's her father and not Miss Linda at daycare that she's so crazy about." A friend reminded me. "Try not bursting into tears when your kid is crying for a babysitter instead of you. That'll stomp your heart, believe me." I do. We're lucky that we can manage on one income, lucky to have a parent at home. There have been wobbles and bumps along the way, adjustments that had to be made. There are chores to manage, responsibilities to divide, and expectations on all sides that aren't always fair or realistic. Mark doesn't do things the way I would, nor do we have the same daily priorities. He's able to leave the dishes in the sink to chase after a family of ducks floating in a nearby pond; dirty dishes drive me crazy. A dryer load of clean laundry can wait till he helps complete a puzzle; I'm compulsive about folding and hanging. I'm serious about vitamins, food groups, lotion and sunscreen. He's much more relaxed about everything. It's been a hard struggle for both of us to accept that neither way is better, just different. Three years into it though, I can honestly say that it's working for us. Our family has grown. We are overjoyed to have another daughter now, a beautiful, healthy nine month old. Both of our girls are bright-eyed, active, happy little souls. And both of their hearts firmly belong to their daddy. No woman can have it all -- I thought I understood that. Problem is, the "all" I thought I'd be required to sacrifice was a new car, a vacation, designer clothes, or a weekend away. I didn't realize that my particular "all" would include being the alpha, the favorite, the primary parent to my child. Deep down I guess I truly believed that no matter how terrific Daddy was, Mommy could never be trumped. Maybe we all secretly believe that -- isn't the image of the fumbling incompetent new father practically ingrained in our culture? And of course we also have biology on our side; our bodies make our babies. Our hips are designed to support their weight, our breasts to nourish them, and cushion their sleepy heads. We are their comfort, their security, their springboard to freedom and independence. We are our baby's first love. Call it selfish or crazy, but sometimes, there is part of us that doesn't really want to share that love, that yearns to keep it all for ourselves. I still daydream about how it will be when it's my turn to stay home, that glorious someday when I'll get to be the favorite. In the meantime, I'm discovering that hearts, like mommies, are surprisingly elastic. Which is good, since my daughters are teaching me to make room for daddy.

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