“Why does he keep saying he loves Daddy more?”
That was the thought circling my head as I stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the same sippy cup for the third time. My six-year-old, Leo, had just informed me—with the casual bluntness only a kindergartner can pull off—that he loved his dad more than me. It wasn’t even a fight. He said it while reaching for his juice box, like he was reporting that the sky is blue or that his socks don’t match, which is his official look this month.
I wanted to say, “I carried you for nine months, I cut your grapes into quarters until you were four, and I know exactly which noise you make when you’re pretending to be asleep.” But I didn’t. I just said, “Okay,” and handed him the juice. He took one sip and then added, “And I love you a little bit. But Daddy a lot.”
That stung more than I’d like to admit.
Over the next week, it became a theme. If I asked him to put his shoes away, he’d inform me that Daddy never makes him do that. If I tucked him in, he’d tell me he wished Daddy was doing the tucking. When his dad walked through the door, Leo would launch himself across the room, literally shoving my hand aside, and yell, “You’re my favorite person in the whole world!”
My husband found it funny at first, then awkward, then mildly concerning. He started deflecting: “Oh, buddy, you love Mama too, right?” But Leo would just shake his head with a grin, clearly enjoying the power. I know that grin. It’s the same grin he gets when he discovers a new button that does something unexpected.
So what do you do with a child who is not only expressing a preference but being an outright little jerk about it? Do you correct him? Do you ignore it and hope it’s a phase? Do you hide in the pantry and cry? (I did that once, but only for a minute, and I would not recommend it.)
At first, I took it personally. I’m the one who wakes up at 3 a.m. when he has a nightmare. I’m the one who remembers that he doesn’t like the crust on one side of his sandwich but is fine with it on the other. I’m the one who sat on the toilet lid for forty minutes during the “I can’t pee at school” phase. And he loves his dad more because Dad does a silly voice when reading Mo Willems books?
Then I started to notice something. He only said it when I was setting a limit. When I said “no screen time,” when I insisted he brush his teeth for the full two minutes, when I said we couldn’t buy the giant LEGO set that day. He never said “I love Daddy more” while we were building a pillow fort or at the park. It was always when I was the obstacle.
That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t a real preference. It was a weapon.
Not in a malicious way, but in the way that children use emotional statements to test boundaries. At six, kids are realizing that their words have weight. They can say something that makes an adult’s face change, and that’s huge power. “I don’t love you” or “I love Dad more” is like a kid-sized bomb. They don’t fully understand the collateral damage—they just know it goes boom.
So I stopped taking it at face value. I started treating it as behavior, not truth.
What worked, at least for now, was a specific phrase. The next time he said, “You’re not my best friend, I don’t even like you,” I responded: “That’s a strong feeling you’re having. I know it’s hard when I say no. I still love you, and I’m okay knowing that you’re mad at me.” Then I went back to folding laundry.
He got this puzzled look on his face, like he expected me to engage. When I didn’t, he stomped off. About five minutes later, he came back and asked me to play dinosaurs. I said yes, because connection after a hard moment is more important than holding a grudge over a word he can’t fully comprehend yet.
I also talked to my husband about it. We made a pact: whenever Leo pulled the “favorite” card, we would not ask him to retract it or apologize for the feeling. Instead, one of us would say, “It sounds like you wish Dad was the one in charge. I understand that.” And then we’d let it go. If the comment came with a lot of aggression—hitting, screaming, throwing something—we’d still address the behavior, but separately from the love part. The message was: “Even when you’re mad, and even when you say things that hurt, we’re still here. You don’t have to worry about losing us.”
Because that, I think, is what’s actually underneath this. As much as Leo is testing his power, he’s also checking for security. He wants to know that our love isn’t conditional on him being nice. And the only way to prove that is to let him be a little rude sometimes and see that the world doesn’t collapse.
The other practical thing I changed was to stop asking the question myself. I used to do the classic parent thing: sitting on the edge of his bed, I’d say, “Who’s the best mama in the world?” He’d say, “Daddy.” I’d laugh nervously. But that was me setting us up. When you ask a child to rank people, you’re inviting a competition they’re not ready for. And if they’re in a playful or contrary mood, they’ll pick the person who isn’t in the room. Because that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with wanting to be the one in control of the answer.
Now I try to use more specific language. Instead of “Who do you love more?” we say “What was your favorite part of the day with Mom?” or “What’s something fun you want to do with Dad this weekend?” It shifts the focus from comparison to individual experience.
Does it still sting when he yells “Daddy is the best” and I don’t even get honorable mention? Yes. It does. I’m not made of stone. But I’ve also realized that his love isn’t an either/or. It’s not a pie where I’m getting a smaller slice. He’s six. He’s learning how to be a person. And part of that learning involves pushing buttons and saying things he doesn’t wholly mean, just to see what happens.
I don’t know when this phase will end. Maybe it’ll fade on its own in a few weeks, or maybe we’ll have a different version of this when he’s thirteen and tells me I’m ruining his life. I hope I remember then what I’m trying to remember now: that his rudeness isn’t a verdict on our relationship. It’s a clumsy attempt to express something big—anger at limits, jealousy over attention, or just the strange thrill of saying a powerful word.
The other night, after dinner, Leo climbed into my lap unprompted. He put his head on my shoulder and said, “You smell like soap.” I don’t know if that’s a compliment. But it was an opening. I said, “And you smell like fruit snacks.” He laughed. For a second, he was just my little boy, not a tiny critic with strong opinions about which parent is superior.
Later, as he got ready for bed, he looked at me and said, “Daddy can read me a story, but you can do the voices.”
I’ll take it.
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