More like left out.
Because that sweet baby who snuggled me close, staked her claim, screamed when anyone but me held her, would eventually fall in love with him. Yes, him. You know, Daddy.
It took 20 months. 20 months for her to realize that he is more fun. Has better character voices, is a stronger jungle gym. 20 months for her to stop crying every time he held her, or kissed me, or walked into the room. 20 months for everything she loved about Mama to be replaced with washing the car and fishing off the river bank and sneaking cookies and samples at Costco. 20 months for me to be relegated to the other side of the couch, the girls snuggled close around him, watching Scooby Doo or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or some other boy show he watched when he was little.
I wouldn’t characterize either of my girls as “Daddy’s Girls” or “Daddy’s Little Princesses”. I think that stereotype is dangerous. And so does Daddy. We tease each other about favorites but as my five year old would say: I have three favorites, you and Daddy and Lulu. And it’s true – we are all each other’s favorites.