Why does my baby seem to like Dad more than me?
The first time I really noticed it, I was standing in the doorway of our living room. I had just come back from the bathroom—a trip that had taken maybe ninety seconds—and my five-month-old, Maya, was on a play mat with my husband, Ben. She was kicking her legs, holding a crinkly book, and smiling at him with that open-mouthed, gummy grin that usually made my heart melt. I walked over, crouched down, and said her name in that singsong voice I use. She looked at me, her face completely blank.
I reached out to pick her up, and her lip started to wobble.
It wasn’t a fluke. Over the next few weeks, it became a pattern. When Ben came home from work, Maya would light up. When I came home from the grocery store, she would study me like I was a stranger who had wandered into her house. If she was tired and I tried to rock her to sleep, she would arch her back and twist her head, looking over my shoulder for her dad. If she was playing on the floor and I sat down next to her, she would often just roll away.
I felt like I was failing a test I didn’t know I was taking. I was the one who got up for the 3 a.m. feedings. I was the one who did the laundry and sterilized the bottles and trimmed her tiny, razor-sharp nails. And yet, when my husband walked into the room, Maya acted like she had been waiting for him to get off a long-haul flight.
I didn’t want to tell anyone how much it bothered me, because it sounded so petty. I was a grown adult, and I was jealous of a man who had to Google how to fold a muslin swaddle for the first three weeks of her life. But I found myself pulling back, giving her space, because it hurt less to be ignored than to be actively rejected. I’d hand her to Ben and go fold laundry, trying not to think about how she seemed happier in his arms.
It was my sister-in-law, a nurse, who finally said something sensible. We were at a family barbecue, and Maya was doing her usual routine—cooing at everyone except me. My sister-in-law watched me hand Maya to Ben and said, offhandedly, “She’s probably storing up all her emotional stuff for you. She knows you’re the safe zone.”
I didn’t believe her. It felt like a nice way to say “your baby likes your husband more.”
But it got me thinking. I started observing the way we interact with her differently. Ben’s play style is all about high-energy novelty. He lifts her high into the air, swings her gently, makes loud whooshing noises. He is the fun uncle in the house. My interactions are focused on caregiving—changing diapers, feeding, settling her for naps, and enforcing the rhythm of the day. I am the one who holds her still so her nasal aspirator can do its job. I am the one who wipes her face with a damp cloth when she has mashed banana smeared to her ears. For the past month, every time she has been hungry, tired, or congested, she has looked at me, and I’m the one who has had to do the work of soothing her.
At five months, babies don’t have object permanence the way older children do. They don’t have the cognitive ability to miss you or to understand that you’re coming back. More importantly, they are beginning to differentiate between caregivers, but they express that differentiation in very primitive ways. They don’t run away or say “I prefer Daddy.” They just show discomfort when they see the person who is associated with a certain type of work.
To test this theory, I tried something new. Ben had a late meeting, so it was just the two of us at bath time. Usually, I rush through it—quick wash, out, moisturizer, pajamas. But that night, I didn’t. I filled the tub, and I sat on the floor with my sleeves rolled up. I let her splash. I didn’t try to speed her up. I didn’t pull her out the second she started to fuss. I let her float on her back, and I just looked at her without any agenda. I wasn’t holding her against her will; I wasn’t trying to put her to sleep. I was just present.
She grabbed for my nose. Then she laughed. It was a real laugh, not the sleep-deprived giggle she gets when she’s overtired.
In the following weeks, I made a conscious effort to change the ratio of my interactions. I started doing more “playtime” tasks during the day, and I tried to let Ben handle some of the less glamorous chores. He took over the daytime diaper changes when he was home. He was in charge of the after-dinner bath. Forcing myself into the fun parent role felt awkward at first—I had to remind myself to put her down on the floor rather than picking her up to carry her to the crib. But slowly, she started looking at me with a little more neutrality, and sometimes, unexpectedly, with a flicker of delight.
I also learned about something called “arrival and retreat.” A developmental specialist friend told me that babies at this age are often overstimulated by direct eye contact and rapid movement. Instead of leaning in close and demanding her attention, I started sitting quietly a few feet away while she played. I would pick up one of her toys and play with it myself, narrating in a low voice. “This is a blue block. I’m stacking it.” After a few moments, Maya would roll over to see what I was doing. She would come to me on her terms, rather than me swooping in on hers.
I still get a twinge of jealousy when her face lights up for Ben. I won’t pretend that’s gone. But I understand now that her preference wasn’t a rejection of me—it was a function of association. I was the person she associated with stress and work. When you’re five months old, that’s not semantics. That’s everything.
Now, on weekends, I take her outside for a walk around the block. She sits in the stroller, and I narrate every tree and car we pass. I try not to look at her too intensely. I let her guide the interaction. When she looks at me, I smile, but I don’t reach for her immediately. I’ve learned that for her, attention is not the same as affection. She needs me to be nearby, holding space, but not always grabbing.
I’m not sure we’re fully out of the woods. There are still days when she cries when I walk in the room, and I have to remind myself to breathe. But last night, she was playing on the floor. I was sitting on the couch, reading a book. She had been perfectly content by herself for ten minutes. Out of nowhere, she rolled over until she was right at my feet. She grabbed my ankle with both hands, looked up, and pulled a single, drooly chewie out of her mouth. She held it out to me, like a gift.
I leaned down and took it. I pretended to eat it. She squealed with laughter.
It’s not a perfect ending. There are still moments of uncertainty. But I’m learning that at five months old, being the safe base isn’t about being the fun one. It’s about being the one who stays. And that, I’m realizing, is a different kind of fondness. It’s quieter, but it’s there.
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