A preference for daddy is difficult to deal with

My daughter's preference for her father, when I have spent all day caring for her, is difficult for me to bear.

Around five months into my pregnancy, I remember waking up in a panic, terrified. I shook Mr T awake and made him swear he wouldn’t love the baby more than me.

“I’m her mother, I’m meant to love her more than I love you,” I explained to my bemused husband. “But you always have to love me first.” I don’t think I knew myself well enough. I was convinced that the hardest part about having a little girl would be sharing Mr T’s love. I couldn’t imagine competing for his attention and vying for his affection. And as much as I hoped the baby would turn out to be a girl, I feared that she’d also turn out to be my competition.

Now, I am bemused by how needy my thoughts and fears once were. I had wasted so much time worrying about something that never even materialised into an issue; I happen to find Mr T a lot more attractive every time I observe how much he adores Baby A.

Instead, I should have been worrying about something else entirely.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was feeling. Strange sensations would hit me at the most peculiar of moments: when Baby A would hurl herself at Mr T the minute he would walk through the front door then refuse to be deposited back in my arms just so her father could have a second to change; or when she’d wake up crying from a nightmare and start screaming “Daddy” as soon as I picked her up out of her crib; or when she’d push me away when I leaned in for a kiss and instead cover her father’s face with butterfly pecks.

A heavy, uncomfortable weight in my chest would always make itself known at those moments. A slight pang, twinging, quickly followed by a dull ache. I couldn’t place it at first. Heartburn? Indigestion? Could it possibly be, much as I hate to admit it, jealousy?

I’m honestly beginning to think so. Of course, I’m delighted that she loves her father so much, but I do wish she’d make her preference for him a little less obvious.

I should be smarter than this, stronger. I should acknowledge that this is just part of her development and that this is just proof of how strong their bond is and how great a father Mr T is, and how much she misses her daddy when he’s working those long hours. She still wants me to put her to sleep and sing her a lullaby and fetch her a Band-Aid; this doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me, or loves me less. But it’s hard being rational sometimes, or mature about this.

I do love being witness to the relationship those two share. I don’t want to change that. But not too long ago, she preferred me above all else. I was where her world began and ended. It was my neck that was sore from being squeezed by her tiny arms.

And I keep thinking to myself, this is just the beginning. She prefers him to me – sometimes, not always, I admit. And, already, there are times she prefers her toys and her books to either of us. Soon, her friends will come first. I’ll blink, and she’ll be more in love with her smartphone, her wardrobe and her social calendar than either of her parents.

For now, though – just for now – I’m surprised not just at how much it hurts that her daddy comes first, but at how difficult I find it to deal with that hurt.

I still, it seems, don’t know myself all that well.

The writer is a freelance journalist in Abu Dhabi