It started subtly, a shift in who got the biggest smiles, the fastest crawls towards outstretched arms. For me, as a new mom to our son Ben, it was initially heartwarming when my husband, Kevin, stepped in. Kevin, with a self-deprecating humor born of those early, milk-fueled days, joked about his role being “just the butler-janitor,” good for diaper changes and little else in Ben’s eyes. I was the source of comfort after shots at the pediatrician, the one who elicited those precious first giggles, the constant presence Ben sought. In my naivete, I believed this dynamic was set in stone.
Then, around Ben’s eleventh month, the world turned upside down. Suddenly, it was all about Dada. From month eleven to twenty-three (yes, I counted every agonizing day), Ben transferred his devotion entirely to Kevin. The change wasn’t gradual; it was a complete and utter switch. He yearned for Kevin with an intensity that felt primal, an almost physical need to be as close as possible. If Kevin dared to leave the room, even for a moment, Ben would erupt in heart-wrenching sobs, as if his father were embarking on a perilous journey. Bathroom breaks became family affairs, with Ben offering unwavering “moral support” to his dad for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile, as they engaged in their father-son rituals – kitchen island races and sofa snuggles – I found myself relegated to the sidelines. Perched on the loveseat, aptly named the “unloved seat” in my mind, I’d go through the motions of adulting – paying bills, folding laundry – feeling more like an observer than a participant in my own family life. The butler-janitor roles had undeniably reversed.
Kevin, ever the pragmatist, tried to reassure me that being the object of such intense toddler affection wasn’t always a picnic. He confessed to feeling trapped, even a bit monstrous for craving a moment of peace from the constant demands of his pint-sized shadow. He insisted I was the lucky one. “Sure,” I’d murmur, the lie easily slipping past my lips. Freedom was nice, in theory. But the absence of Ben’s sticky hand in mine felt like a profound loss.
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A mother lovingly holds her young daughter with curly hair, both sharing a joyful smile, exemplifying a close parent-child bond.
Desperate for answers and commiseration, I turned to my mom friends. To my dismay, I discovered they offered no solace. Each had experienced this parental preference phenomenon, but always from the coveted position of the favored one. “Oh,” one friend admitted, “I’ve only ever heard of dads being the ones who get the cold shoulder.” This revelation hit me hard. My initial, dismissive “kids go through phases, right?!” mentality morphed into a spiral of self-doubt. Was I a bad mother? Not intentionally unkind or frightening, but perhaps subtly cold, emitting imperceptible signals that pushed Ben away when he sought comfort?
This wasn’t just an internal struggle; it played out publicly. The sting of Ben falling at the zoo and physically pushing me aside to reach Kevin’s embrace, or watching them dance together at a wedding while I sat alone at a table, wasn’t just sadness; it was acute embarrassment. Then came the inevitable, tactless comment from a relative: “Wow, Ben really favors his dad.” The room collectively developed a sudden fascination with their footwear, the unspoken sentiment hanging heavy in the air. Shame washed over me. Mothers are supposed to be nurturing and adored, and I felt like a failure on both counts, with the evidence on full display.
Therapy became my sanctuary (surprise!). Dr. S. listened patiently as I recounted the saga of Ben’s paternal devotion. Her advice, thankfully, was practical and reassuringly unfazed: Don’t show Ben you’re hurt. Don’t withdraw when he rejects you. Keep engaging. The timeless advice for the heartbroken applied to toddler preference too: Put yourself out there!
And so, I diligently began inserting myself into the Kevin-Ben bubble. While there were still moments of blatant rejection – “Hey, should we go outside while Dada takes a shower?” I suggested once, earning a look of utter horror from Ben – more often than not, he’d simply shuffle over, making space for me. “Run around the kitchen with Dada” evolved into “Get chased around the kitchen by Mama and Dada.” Movie nights transitioned from separate seating arrangements to a cozy three-person cuddle puddle.
Let’s be clear: Kevin remained Ben’s primary celestial body, orbited frantically by his tiny moon. However, I began to perceive a shift, a dawning realization that deep within my child’s developing psyche, my love was still present and significant. The more I actively participated, the more I reminded him of that enduring connection.
Reporting my progress to Dr. S., I cautiously declared that Ben might, possibly, potentially, be starting to like me again! Her insightful follow-up question cut to the core: “Which one of you does Ben see more?” The answer was unequivocally me. Pre-pandemic, I handled both daycare drop-offs and pickups. Kevin was typically out the door before Ben even woke up, his daily presence limited to an hour each evening and weekends. “Exactly,” Dr. S. affirmed. “Your presence is a constant, a certainty. Kevin’s is a question mark.” A lightbulb went off. No wonder Ben clung to Dada so fiercely. In his toddler world, Kevin’s appearances were unpredictable, his departures and returns governed by a mysterious, incomprehensible schedule.
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A mother and daughter, both wearing sunglasses and radiant smiles, pose together, highlighting a joyful and stylish mother-daughter relationship.
Dr. S. then circled back to my early parenting philosophy. Hadn’t I been a staunch advocate of attachment theory in Ben’s infancy, religiously using baby carriers, responding instantly to every whimper, determined to establish myself as his unwavering safe haven? Hadn’t I even discussed in therapy the idea that the ultimate parental achievement might be becoming a benign, taken-for-granted presence? Indeed, I had. And I had succeeded. Ben knew, on a fundamental level, that I was his constant. His current preoccupation was solidifying the same unwavering devotion from his father. They were on their own journey of connection. Ben and I had already completed ours.
Even if Dr. S. (fine, we) hadn’t unraveled the mystery of toddler preference, everything would have resolved itself in time. Firstly, phases, by their very nature, are temporary (though this is hard to believe when you’re in the thick of one). Secondly, the pandemic-induced quarantine, forcing us into constant trio-time, leveled the playing field. Dad became a permanent fixture, and the novelty wore off (apologies, Kevin). Thirdly, our move to a new house around Ben’s second birthday triggered a regression, a return to a primal need for maternal closeness.
For months after the move, Ben was my shadow, curling up beside me, sharing his toddler pronouncements – “Sock! Duck! Hat!” – before insisting on cheek-to-cheek Ratatouille viewings. Now, at three, he loves us equally. Some days, dare I say, he even leans towards me as the preferred parent. I try to restrain my gloating, but it does feel undeniably good.
Who knows what parenting curveballs the future holds? But I now understand that Ben will never truly “ditch” me. He can’t. I’m imprinted on his subconscious, a permanent fixture. Amidst the chaos of diapers and runny noses, it’s easy to forget that you are, in fact, your child’s universe. I am his mother. Whatever the next decades bring, however frequently he and his dad (and friends, and partners) venture off without me, our bond will remain the most enduring of all.
