Today, Marcel started singing as we ran, hand-in-hand, from the car, across the parking lot and into the Target for the potty.
“We’re running! We’re running,” she sang.
In the bathroom, Marcel shined at both the potty and the singing.
“I’m doing it! I’m doing it,” she sang.
By the time we ran, hand-in-hand, from the Target, across the parking lot and back to the car, Marcel had gotten caught up in appreciation of our adventure.
“You’re my daddy! You’re my da-a-a-a-dee!”
Mommy, who had waited in the car, joined in the revelry, but sans the singing.
“Marcel”, she smiled, “do you know that he’s my husband?”
Marcel, without a moments hesitation, switched to a different verse.
“Too bad, too bad…”
Now is a good time to digress for a moment.
My wife and I are engaged in a bit of a rivalry over who has it better. We’re constantly teasing each other over who has the better taste, the better judgment, the better parenting skills, the most affection from our child and, even, who has the better spouse. See, for example, this old story.
Given all of that, you can understand why my wife would get a good chuckle out Marcel’s new verse, seemingly anointing her as the better spouse. Actually, she cackled. Then, Marcel finished her verse.
“…for da-a-a-a-dee!”
Happy Father’s Day, indeed.
