I am from the south. In the south, most people call their dad/father/pappa “Daddy.” This holds true for your entire life. My father called his father “Daddy” until the day he died. My mom and aunt called their mother “Mother” and their father “Daddy.” There’s just something about a daddy.
I was lucky enough to know my mother’s Daddy and my father’s Daddy. One lived just across the pasture. . .the other five miles up the road in town. They were a wonderful part of my childhood.
We have a Daddy at our house. He has been a Daddy now for 8 years. My running joke is that he is a terrible Mommy, but a wonderful Daddy. And he is.
He wrestles in the floor with the children. He is the Tickle Monster. He lifts heavy things. He is an Eagle Scout, so camping with him (in a tent, on the ground) is actually pleasant. He knows how to use power tools. He builds things, and they do not fall down. He has brought cool/icky (depends on your point of view) pets into our home like snakes, chickens, turtles, frogs, a rabbit, and a tarantula. He does not mind getting wet or muddy or sweaty. He asks the children logic based questions to stretch their brains. . .he also makes silly noises and teases them to stretch their senses of humor. He does all of this, and he loves me. The children know that he loves me. The children know that he loves them.
I married the man I fell in love with. He was not a Daddy. He was a 20-something blond haired, thin, fraternity guy from a huge town I had never been to. He has become many things over the past 15 years I have known him. . .today we celebrated the fact that he is a Daddy. And we love him right back.