I’ve been told that a daughter needs a father’s affection. That it is essential — vital even — to growing up right and not bringing home guys who look like alien biker thugs with gum disease.
I never thought of myself as an entirely affectionate guy, but that all changed when I had a daughter. I became a puddle of mud. A bottle of syrup. A big soft-serve ice cream. A loving, doting, slobbering, hugging, kissing, sweet-mouth talking lump of sappy blubber.
But here’s the thing: I might be affectionate — a sad sack of Mr. Snuggles — but getting the little partner to join in ain’t so easy. When it comes to her dear old dad, she’s affection-resistant.
She’s the type of girl many dad’s dream about — adorable, sweet and pretty, yet at the same time a rough-and-tumble, high-energy, grade-A tree climber. She’s strong and agile for a 4-1/2-year-old, and can dole out a mean punch.
I know this because I think it’s her way of telling the old man, “Hey mister, I love you!”
Whack!
Truth is, I can’t believe I even want a “snuggle.” I despise the word. It sounds silly and juvenile, and I’ve never been a “snuggler.” I don’t even like to hold my pillow too tight.
But something happens when I see that little critter — I just want to scoop her up and squeeze her until her hair curls. Nothing feels better than one of my cheeks pressed against hers.
She won’t have anything of it, though. She’ll use those powerful limbs to free herself like the jaws of life, complaining that “my face is scratchy” and that she doesn’t “hug boys.”
“Boys!” I blurt out. “You think boys have hair on their chest like me?” (Hopefully she doesn’t know the answer to that.)
Don’t get me wrong: She’s an affectionate kid. I see it all the time. During a story before bed she will press her body up against my wife, kissing her arm and burying her face wherever she can comfortably cram it. Then she peeks over at me with a wry smile to see if I notice.
Of course I notice! Stinker!
“Come over here,” I say, grabbing a foot or whatever I can snag. “I want some of that love, too.”
“Never!” she tells me. It’s like I’m some kind of pirate trying to recruit her into my band.
“Let me go, you,” she says, squirming out like an acrobat, sometimes violating the laws of gravity.
Then … whack!
But I’m starting to figure her out — her little quirks and, mainly, how full of it she is. She was crashing into me one day, shoving me with her outstretched arms. Funny at first, I quickly grew tired of being a punching bag and thought up a way to get her to stop.
“Look here, little one,” I said. “You shove me one more time and I’m going to hug you.”
She stopped and thought about it. I could see little sparks in the pupils of her eyes. Gears in that noggin were mulling it over.
Then, just like that, she gave me a shove that would stop a semi.
So I made good on my threat and hugged her. She tried to fight me off, complaining the whole time. When she got free, she gave me the evil eye and growled. Then with a huff and a smile, she shoved me again and braced for the hug she knew was coming.
Little stinker!
So I’ll take my affection however I can get it. No sugar in my coffee. Part love and part wrestling match will do for me. If that’s what it takes, so be it. It might start with a poke or a tickle, and then involve chasing around the house and screaming, but I’ll get my hug and I’ll get my “snuggle.”
Whoever knew a little affection would hurt so good.