Diapers, Daughters, and Dads
Today my daughter dressed me up, slapped a diaper on my head, and generally abused me in the sweetest, most smile inspiring way imaginable...and I let her. Of course I let her. She's my daughter. I found myself squeezed into her pajama pants, pretending to cry like a baby, with previously mentioned diaper set firmly on my head. I'd be ashamed it it wasn't so fun. It's a nice reminder of what you need to be happy. It's probably not what you think you need. I never thought that a diaper on my head could fill some sort of invisible happiness void, but it did...it does.
You want so desperately for her to find joy in every day, and also in you, so much so that when she does it doesn't much matter where you're at, or what you're doing. She's smiling and laughing, and you're happy...embarrassingly happy. You're so happy that you'll cram yourself into a toddlers bed, pretend to be a baby, and allow your child to turn you into a giant idiot. A happy giant idiot...with a diaper on his head.