Now, suddenly, she looks me dead in the eye and says she’d rather hang out with... herself.
They’re not leaving you behind. They’re just finally comfortable enough to sit with who they are—and that’s a gift you gave them.
When Rissa says, “Stay with me,” she’s not pushing me away. She’s inviting me into a more advanced level of trust. She’s saying: I know you’re right there if I need you. But for now, I’ve got me. I sat down two feet away from her castle. Not inside it. Not directing it.
It happened on a Tuesday. No rain. No dramatic music. Just the hum of the dishwasher and the click of the front door latch as I got home from work. My daughter, Rissa (age 4, going on 17), was sitting on the living room rug, building a castle out of magnatiles.
My four-year-old had just referred to herself in the third person as her own preferred company. For two years, this child has been velcro. Bathroom trips? Supervised. Sleeping? Co-dependent. Grocery shopping? A contact sport of holding hands.
And right now? She belongs with herself. We spend so much time trying to be chosen . The chosen parent for bedtime. The chosen lap for story time. We wear “daddy’s girl” like a medal.
At first, my ego stung. Does she not want the ice cream? Does she not want me*?*
Rissa May Stay With Me, Daddy Official
Now, suddenly, she looks me dead in the eye and says she’d rather hang out with... herself.
They’re not leaving you behind. They’re just finally comfortable enough to sit with who they are—and that’s a gift you gave them. rissa may stay with me, daddy
When Rissa says, “Stay with me,” she’s not pushing me away. She’s inviting me into a more advanced level of trust. She’s saying: I know you’re right there if I need you. But for now, I’ve got me. I sat down two feet away from her castle. Not inside it. Not directing it. Now, suddenly, she looks me dead in the
It happened on a Tuesday. No rain. No dramatic music. Just the hum of the dishwasher and the click of the front door latch as I got home from work. My daughter, Rissa (age 4, going on 17), was sitting on the living room rug, building a castle out of magnatiles. They’re just finally comfortable enough to sit with
My four-year-old had just referred to herself in the third person as her own preferred company. For two years, this child has been velcro. Bathroom trips? Supervised. Sleeping? Co-dependent. Grocery shopping? A contact sport of holding hands.
And right now? She belongs with herself. We spend so much time trying to be chosen . The chosen parent for bedtime. The chosen lap for story time. We wear “daddy’s girl” like a medal.
At first, my ego stung. Does she not want the ice cream? Does she not want me*?*