My Favorite Person

There was a span of time, from when my son was not quite one, to when he was close to a year and a half old when I could say with reasonable confidence that he was my favorite person in the world, and I his.

Maybe that’s not such a big thing. After all, aren’t a lot of parents and their children close? Particularly in that window of time, before he’d made friends and when we had no family living in the same state as us, there was a reasonable chance he’d favor me above any other human soul, and the fact that the work schedules Heather and I had worked out dictated that I spent more time with him than his mother did, it follows that the kid would favor me. Nonetheless, the dynamic felt special to me, to be loved so unconditionally and fully, and by the person I held in highest esteem myself. So it was that we whiled away the better parts of days with him hugged close to me in a Baby Bjorn carrier, alternately napping against my chest or looking up and cooing. I’d give him most of his baths, and we’d make funny noises at one another and I’d sing songs.

It was a strange period in my life, because on one hand, I’d scarcely been happier in those best moments the two of us would have all to ourselves. And yet, I was only teaching part time, and ferreting away what time I could to make extra money from freelance work, not getting nearly as much of my own writing done as I’d have liked.

Then everything changed.

I got a phone interview, which led to a campus interview, which led to a job offer that would not only mean me teaching full time, but all of us uprooting and moving to Las Vegas. Days later, I got an offer to work for a month in California for a past employer—a job that would offer a natural reason to head west early, and a job that’s salary would more than offset what moving expenses my relocation funds weren’t going to cover.

We made a plan.

We packed our things in a relocation cube. Heather peddled away a lot of furniture on Facebook Marketplace, and we donated most of the rest. We sent off the cube, to sit in storage for a month and change, then arrive at our new home in Nevada.

Riley didn’t do so well with long drives, so I took the car and embarked on a four-day, 2,400-mile drive of listening to podcasts and music, and crossing Kansas off of my states-to-visit list (state forty-seven out of fifty). Heather and Riley hung around the mostly emptied out house, and she finished the final, arduous steps of clearing the space and tying up loose ends while keeping a toddler safe, before the two of them flew out to meet me on the west coast.

I enjoyed those days on the road to an extent. Though the long hours wore on me by the end, there was a pleasure in the autonomy and the scenery. By the time my four days were up, though, I mostly missed Riley. (And Heather, too.)

I went to the airport early with a handmade chauffeur’s sign that read Mr. Riley, and I waited.

Heather pushed Riley in a stroller. He was tired from the cross-country flight, not napping well, and it being far, far past his bedtime on Eastern Time. As soon as they were past the line for security, I rushed to his side to give him a kiss, certain he’d be elated, if a little overwhelmed at our reunion.

He cried.

Riley cried over the days to follow anytime I tried to pick him up, and especially if Heather left the room. We rationalized. His whole world had turned upside down in a house cleared of furniture, then my disappearance, then a long plane ride. Heather had been his only constant for this span of days and it was only fair that he’d cling fiercely to her.

Fiercest.

He didn’t cling to me at all.

I started a busy summer from there, scarcely seeing Riley for more than hour or so a day, occasionally two. He warmed to me a little—not so scared to be alone in a room with me at least. Still, a few days into our emotional estrangement, I cried for our relationship lost and how, for lack of a better explanation, he might have assumed I’d abandoned him when I embarked on my cross-country drive.

We rebuilt.

Riley grew comfortable enough to go for evening walks with me, when I frequently had some downtime for an hour or so after dinner. By the time my summer gig was over, we were in many ways back to our old selves.

Except I could tell that Heather was Riley’s favorite person.

It’s silly for an adult to care about favorites in this way, and least of all a toddler’s fickle preferences.

It still stung.

Months passed. We settled into our new life in Las Vegas, where I spent less time with Riley than Heather did, but far less disproportionately so than the summer. Heather could slip away for whole weekend trips, and Riley seemed more or less content in my company as we hung around the house and played at the playground and ventured to different kid attractions in Vegas.

He came to sleep more easily with me again, and to eat better when I was the one feeding him.

I’d still guess that Riley’s favorite person is Heather, who makes him laugh more, spends more hours a day with him, and easily has the better singing voice. I think I’m a close number two again, though. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe all that matters is that the kid loves, and knows that he’s loved.

And always will be.