Mouth smeared with porridge, her back turned to me. My 1 year old daughter Lily is walking away indifferent to what I want in that moment. Here we are, once again in a dance this morning. Just like the morning before, and the one before, and so on.

I give a spoon of porridge. She opens her mouth. A bit less wide than I’d like to see which creates a chance of half of the contents of the spoon being smushed against Lily’s cheeks. I put the spoon in her mouth. She instantly closes it like an alligator snapping its jaws and walks away. I’ve served my purpose. To her I’m nothing more than a porridge delivery man.

I call out in Latvian “Lily! Liiiilyyyy! Come back!” to no avail. I have no power here. Once she will be ready for another spoon, the undeveloped adult will find her way back to the source of the sticky unsweetened mush.

A touch of melancholy blankets over me. My mind drifts to whatever triggers my anxiety that day like upcoming meetings at work, when suddenly I see the mini me I adore most in the world turn around and waddle her way back with a cheeky smile. It’s almost as if she’s thinking “Daddy, I’m just playing around. I’ll always come back to you.”