I Dub Do. Truth.

I talk a ton about how hard it is to be a parent. It is. It totally is. It’s a lot like getting punched in the throat and kicked in the nuts and waking up the next day to get kicked in the throat and punched in the nuts.

Truth.

Daily, I have to find patience where normally patience wouldn’t exist. Like when my daughter decides mid climb on the second of three flights of stairs that she does not want to go up the stairs… or down the stairs. In fact, she just wants to stand on this stair while my arms begin to shake from the grocery bags that are hanging on for dear life.

If, when I was in my 20s, Person Anyone would have told me that someday, a short moody person was going to throw me mega-attitude, hit me with a plastic cow, and laugh while she looked right at me whenever she knew she was doing something that I didn’t like and I was going to do nothing about it, I would have fought Person Anyone in the parking lot just for saying such a thing, but alas, that is exactly what happens when you have kids. Naughty behavior that would appall even Santa. Attitude so fiery that the devil himself don’t wanna come ’round. And mood swings… say what?! You’ve never seen mood swings ’til you’ve seen them from a toddler… or someone with a bi-polar disorder. But you were just fine a moment ago!

This is why I talk a ton about how hard it is to be a parent. It is. It tooooootally is.

But if you are reading this right now and don’t have kids and are asking yourselves why anyone would submit themselves to such humbling days and sleepless nights and snotty noses and kids that bitch slap you – literally – and get away with it, I should share with you these words:

I dub do.

Plain and simple. I dub do.

I dub do are the words that Rafaella whispers to me every night before I leave her in her crib for the evening. After the same nightly routine: bath, bottle, book – I pick her up, turn off the light, and I walk over to her crib where she herself is so exhausted from her day that she gently pushes me, motioning to her crib, letting me know she’s good. I carry her like I would a baby – across my chest – for only a split moment and give her some quick fire Tommy Gun kisses and whisper in her ear, “I love you.” Sometimes she whispers them back right then. Sometimes she doesn’t. As I move around the room to collect her damp towel, fresh with the lavender scent of her baby bath, and her bottle, I feel her eyes watching me. She knows that I am leaving soon. I walk to her door and quietly turn the knob – which is silly that I still think I need to be quiet when I leave her room. She hasn’t fought sleep for over a year and a half. But it is ingrained in me from her infant days, so I quietly turn the knob and open the door.

And then, as the dim lights of the hallway peek into her room and all she could see is the outline of mommy’s body, she softly mutters through her pacifier, “I dub do.”

Heart. Melt. Worth it. All of it. 

“I love you, Rafa.” I remind her before the door closes for the night. And like that, the day’s throat punches and nut kicking and bitch slaps are gone.

Truth.

WARNING: Too Much Cuteness