Who do we blame for this?

by Katie on June 26, 2015

First of all, it’s already been a long summer around here, y’all. You see, we have a little girl around here who just treasures time with her daddy. But we’re in the thick of hay season and everything else summer brings on the farm, so she’s not getting enough of it to suit her. And it’s a battle every day. We’ve adjusted her bedtime some, so she at least gets to see him in the evenings, but every morning I am greeted with a hopeful little sleepy voice, “Is Daddy here? He’s not at work?” And so I begin my day by crushing her world. It’s a good time. Except not. And then, at random moments throughout the day, she’ll have a sad little look on her face. I’ll ask her what’s wrong. “My daddy,” she replies. “What about your daddy?” “I need him. I need my daddy.” Which is a little bit heartbreaking.

Yesterday was particularly rough. Brandon ended up back at home for just a few minutes mid-morning, right before Leyton was headed to the sitter. All was well until it was time to say goodbye. Meltdown city. There were sobs and tears and pleas for Daddy to just come with her. (She didn’t want to stay home, mind you. She just wanted her daddy with her.) Finally, Brandon pulled her onto his lap, promised to play with her that evening after work if she would go and have a fun day, and I was able to at least get her out the door.

That afternoon, I picked her up, where she was having a perfectly lovely time and even proclaimed, “Miss April’s house is SO FUN!” as we were walking down the sidewalk. But before we were even backed out of the driveway, she asked, “Is my daddy at home!?” Which he wasn’t, nor had either of us said he would be there when she got home, just that he would play after work.

Anyway, all that to say, it’s going to be a long summer for all of us.


To have a happy ending to this tale of a broken-hearted little girl, there was some play time with Daddy last night. One of them got out Leyton’s mini basketball, but when Brandon made his first toss to her (which she missed), she picked up the ball, and with a disgusted face, spat out, “I don’t want this stinkin’ ball. I don’t want this stinkin’ ball.”

Which, while of course this isn’t behavior or phrasing we want our two-year-old walking around with, neither of us could contain a few snickers. We tried to conceal them, but based on the number of times she kept repeating it, I’m guessing we failed. But at least it brought a little comic relief to everyone’s day.

Now we’re just trying to figure out which one of us is to blame for this new phrase…


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