There's just something special about being a daddy. An Opa or a Granddaddy both have that same aura of wonderfulness about them, the same ability to make my children light up, squeal, do a happy dance, and run full throttle into waiting arms or startled legs.
It's not that the children don't love me as their mother or their Oma and Grandmama. It's just that we women simply aren't daddies.
Try as we might, we don't play the same. We're responsible for the day-to-day discipline. We have "that" tone of voice to compel immediate obedience. And I must admit, our activities are generally a lot more boring or are located indoors where the fun is definitely not. Who can blame them for choosing to dig a trench or build anything with a hammer and nails over folding laundry or weeding a flower bed?
Unless someone is hungry, sick, or injured, mommy will be chosen last.
But what boggles my mind is when daddy has to do boring jobs...the children still knock each other down to do it with him!
Little bodies that won't stay still for me to finish one short Clifford book or put on two shoes stay perfectly still as they ride with daddy on the ditch witch that creeps forward much slower than a three-legged turtle. The same children who scream in anger when I sit at a traffic light curl up quietly in the cab of Opa's tractor while he removes the disks.
Crazy as it might be, I'm ok with that. In fact, it makes me smile to see my children want to spend time with the men in their lives....and to see the men want to spend time with them, too.
Photos: Wyatt with his daddy, digging the trench for the underground electric line to the house.
Oma and Amelia walking to the house while Amelia points at "Daa!!!"