Almost every day I pick Miles up from daycare, one of the other children — a girl, maybe three years old — says the same thing the second I walk through the door.
“That’s the baby’s daddy.”
I never actually see her, I just hear her voice over the cacophony of toddlers, so my typical response is to do one of those wide-ranging waves with a smile, making eye contact with a half-dozen kids in the hopes that I somehow managed to return the acknowledgement.
This afternoon as I was walking up to the building, a woman passed by with her daughter in her arms. I smiled and nodded and, just after we passed each other, heard the words again. “That’s the baby’s daddy,” the little girl informed her mother.
Now, I’m not sure how, in a facility loaded with infants and toddlers, I became known as “the Baby’s Daddy,” but I suppose there are worse things to be known as. (Like “BABY daddy,” for instance. Let’s not get those two confused.) I have to assume it has less to do with me and more to do with Miles’s status as “THE BABY.” Still, if the thing I’m most recognized for moving forward is being Miles’s dad, I think I’m okay with that.