There are moments in marriage that make you feel like you’ve finally cracked the code. The chaos is over, the kids are distracted, and your wife—battle-weary from parenting and life—leans in close, sighs, and whispers, “I love you.”
That happened after one of our legendary backyard parties. You know the kind: sticky cups everywhere, a mystery hotdog left behind on the fence, kids hyped up on Capri Suns doing laps like feral greyhounds. The neighbors had retreated, the folding chairs were scattered like an abandoned battlefield, and Jo collapsed next to me with that perfect, tired, “I just want to melt into you and forget the children exist for 30 minutes” kind of sigh.
She leaned her head on my shoulder, eyes half-shut, and murmured, “I love you.” It was warm. It was cozy. It was the kind of moment that makes a man think, This is it. This is marriage done right.
But perfection doesn’t last in this house. It can’t. We are not allowed to have nice things.
Because from across the yard came a scream that could only mean one thing: betrayal.
“NO! MY DADA!”
And like a cartoon villain, Moira came barreling across the grass at top speed. Imagine a toddler-shaped linebacker in a dress, powered by pure jealousy. She tackled my leg, climbed up into my lap, and with all the indignation of a Shakespearean queen, declared, “MY DADA.”
Jo blinked at her. “Excuse me? He’s my husband.”
Moira’s eyes narrowed. “No. My dada.”
Now, I should’ve seen where this was going. But I didn’t. Because I’m an idiot. And because I was too busy being secretly flattered that two women in my life were fighting over me. (It’s never for money or chores or the remote. No—it’s for ME. Finally.)
Jo wasn’t backing down. She sat up straighter, brushed her hair out of her face, and went full lawyer mode. “Moira, I married him. He’s mine. I’ve been kissing him long before you came along.”
Moira, without hesitation: “Don’t care. MY dada.”
The other kids started circling like spectators at a middle-school brawl. Logan’s in the back whispering, “Ooooh, Mom’s in trouble.” Kara’s taking sides with Moira because sisterhood is forever. Slayden’s just chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” like a hype man.
Meanwhile, I’m in the middle. One arm claimed by Jo—“MY husband!” The other arm claimed by Moira—“MY dada!” My face frozen in that dad-expression of: I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s bad for me somehow.
The debate escalated.
Jo: “Moira, I pay the bills. That makes him mine.”
Moira: “No. He gets me juice. Mine.”
Jo: “He sleeps in my bed.”
Moira: “He snuggles ME in bed.”
Jo: “Okay, but I kissed him first.”
Moira: “I kissed him LAST.”
And then—because no toddler has ever lost an argument in human history—Moira played her trump card: she buried her face in my chest, wrapped both arms around me, and with the authority of a Supreme Court justice, said, “No. MY dada.”
Jo, exasperated, actually begged. “Please, Moira. Can I at least kiss my husband?”
Moira didn’t even look up. Just tightened her grip, shook her head, and growled: “No.”
So now, here I sit. A grown man, a husband of 13 years, reduced to being the prize in a mother-daughter custody battle. On my left arm, Jo, who’s trying to remind everyone of the marriage license. On my right arm, Moira, who doesn’t care about paperwork because she’s got dibs. And I’m just in the middle thinking: Yep. This is my life.
They don’t tell you about this part of fatherhood in the books. They warn you about diaper blowouts, tantrums in Target, and how kids will bankrupt you. But nobody tells you that one day your toddler will declare war on your marriage just to claim sole ownership of Dad.
And you know what? These are the days I live for.
Because at the end of the night, I may not know whose side I’m supposed to be on… but at least I know I’m loved.
hope you have people lined up to fight over you,
austininva
