when not reading to my daughter

A couple weeks ago I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I overheard Anne reading books to Lilly in the living room, out of sight. One was a book (Roar of a Snore) I enjoy reading to Lilly, which I read often enough that to hear it read by someone other than me was a bit strange at first. I suppose this would be the case, usually, because no two people read a book aloud in the same manner, with the same tone and inflection, etc. But to hear it being read to Lilly by someone other than me was the strange part; or rather to hear Anne interacting with Lilly, through the medium of this particular book, and creating a totally different experience out of it was what made me pause for a moment and really listen to Lilly in her lived experience, practically out of my control as she was learning and growing.

To be sure I can expect more moments like this, but it was, as far as I can recollect, the first time it hit me so strongly; that Lilly is out there on her own, no matter if she is with Anne or me; that Lilly is and will continue to be always just out of reach.

Now for the living-in-the-moment experience: it wasn't any jealously or loss that I felt at that moment, when I listened to this from the other room, as Anne took on the role which I felt was reserved for me, between Lilly and me; but instead it was one of those moments that makes being a father--I mean one of those moments that has been for me as a father--the very elusive essence of fatherhood, that indescribable something about fatherhood. In that moment as in others I was opened to the "whole new kind of love" which I had been warned of.

Anne and Lilly read a number of books that evening as I washed and dried the dishes. Perhaps it's nothing special, really, given the routine-ness of it all; but it will, for me, always be a part of my fatherhood, and stand out as a night to remember.