I generally (3 times out of 4) have meetings after church on Sunday. Brett sits in the foyer with Iddo while I have my meetings and then we all go home together after (or in the middle if she gets super hungry before the meeting is over). Back in August I heard the following conversation as I headed toward my meeting:
Woman #1: You the babysitter now?
Brett: I’m the dad.
Woman #1: It’s the same thing.
Woman #2: No it’s not.
I wanted to go hug Brett and high-five woman #2.
Dads are not babysitters.
No babysitter would put up with as much spit-up as Iddo has made Brett put up with the last several months. I have no idea how she does it, but she can spit-up half a cup of vomit and get it all over Brett, even in his shirt pocket, and not have any of it on her. It’s amazing.
No babysitter would put up with the screaming she can do at night. But Brett wants to spend time with his daughter. So he holds her. And bounces her. And reads her history books. And sings to her.
No babysitter would get so excited over her finding her toes or be so amazed at how much of her fist she can put in her mouth.
No babysitter would stay up all night to welcome her into the world. Or look at her with such love (she’s screaming in the second photo too).
Brett is not the babysitter. He’s the dad. Babysitters will come and go. But he will always be her dad.