Why My Son Wants to Play “Daddies” – And What It Taught Me as a Parent
Last Saturday, Leo, my four-year-old, dragged his plastic shopping cart into the living room and announced, “Let’s play daddies.” He then handed me a toy banana and a wooden spoon. “You be the other daddy.”
I had no script for this. We’d played “firefighters,” “pizza restaurant,” and “bad guys vs. police” many times. But “daddies” was new. I stood there holding the banana, waiting for direction.
“Okay,” I said. “What do daddies do?”
He looked at me as if I’d forgotten something obvious. “We go to the store. The baby needs food.” He pointed to a stuffed elephant slumped in the cart. So we spent the next twenty minutes pushing the elephant around the living room, pointing at cushion aisles, and discussing whether elephants eat bananas or pizza. Leo made all the decisions. I just followed.
That was my introduction to a game that has now become a regular feature of our afternoons. And the more we play, the more I realize how much this simple, slightly odd request – to play “daddies” instead of “house” or “family” – reveals about how children understand the world.
At first, I wondered if he was saying “daddies” because he wanted to exclude mommy. But that wasn’t it. When my wife got home, he asked her to play too, but clarified: “No, mommy, you be the baby.” She had to pretend to crawl under the coffee table and drink from a bottle. Leo, meanwhile, stood over her with the wooden spoon, explaining that a good daddy makes sure babies eat their vegetables. We both laughed, but Leo was completely serious.
Children don’t think about gender roles the way adults do. They notice patterns. Leo sees me make peanut butter sandwiches, wipe his nose, and pick up his toys. So in his mind, “daddy” is a verb – a set of actions that include grocery shopping, feeding, and being slightly silly. When he plays daddies, he’s not trying on an identity. He’s practicing what he’s observed.
That’s why I’ve stopped correcting his terminology. I used to say, “You mean let’s play family?” No, he meant daddies. That’s the game. And there’s real value in letting children name their own play, even if the name seems narrow or confusing to adults.
One afternoon, Leo and his friend Maya were playing in the backyard. Leo wanted to play daddies again. Maya said she wanted to be the mommy. Leo agreed, but then said, “But I’m the daddy and you’re the mommy, so we both have to take care of the baby.” They spent twenty minutes arguing about who had to push the stroller. I sat on the porch, watching, resisting the urge to intervene. Eventually, they figured it out: they both pushed. Then they traded roles without a fuss.
What struck me was that neither of them thought it was strange that Leo wanted to be “the daddy.” Maya’s mom later mentioned it at pickup. “She came home saying she wants to play daddies too.” We both laughed, but underneath the silliness, there’s something important happening. Pretend play isn’t just a random activity. It’s how children practice adult responsibilities, test relationships, and make sense of their own place in a family.
For teachers and caregivers, this kind of play can feel tricky. Sometimes boys are discouraged from playing “mommy” or girls from playing “daddy,” out of a well-meaning desire to promote equality. But that misses the point. When a child specifically asks to play a parental role, they’re exploring what that role looks like to them – not trying to lock in a future identity. It’s no different from playing “doctor” or “zookeeper.” It’s a way to experiment with power, care, and belonging.
There are practical things I’ve learned from all this. First, let the child lead the game, even if it doesn’t make sense. When Leo tells me to be “the other daddy,” I don’t question it. I just ask follow-up questions to keep the play going. This builds his language and narrative skills. Instead of saying “What does a daddy do?” (which can feel like a test), I say things like “Oh, the baby elephant looks hungry. Should we get more bananas?” Simple, concrete additions help extend the scene.
Second, don’t overthink the vocabulary. If a child says “daddies,” don’t correct them to “parents” or “grown-ups.” They’re using the words they have. The game is about the actions, not the label. If a group of children wants to play daddies, let them. You can always introduce a prop later – a briefcase, a toolbox, a pile of laundry – to expand the possibilities.
Third, notice what your child imitates. The first time Leo played daddies, he tucked the elephant into a blanket and said, “Shhh, the baby is sleeping.” That’s exactly what I do at nap time. I had no idea he was paying such close attention. Watching him play gave me a strange mirror into my own habits – both the good ones and the slightly embarrassing ones. One day, he pretended to sneeze into his elbow and then said, “Wash your hands, daddy.” I didn’t realize I said that so often.
This kind of play also opens a door for talking about families that don’t have a mommy or a daddy. Leo has a classmate with two moms. When he asked, “Can they play daddies?” I said, “They can play whatever they like.” He didn’t need more explanation. Kids are much more flexible than we are.
As for the game itself, it’s still going on. Leo now has a list of “daddy jobs” he expects me to perform. He’ll hand me a plastic screwdriver and tell me to fix the play shelf while he reads the elephant a bedtime story. He might be the bossiest daddy I’ve ever met, but I suspect that’s just his personality.
I don’t know how long this phase will last. Maybe next week he’ll want to play “spaceship captains” and forget all about daddies. Or maybe he’ll keep refining his version of fatherhood, teaching me more about how he sees me. Either way, I’m glad we have a game where I get to sit on the floor and follow his lead. At four, he already knows something I’m still learning: sometimes the best way to understand a role is to step into it for a while.
So when he hands me the banana and says, “Let’s play daddies,” I put down my phone and become the other daddy. It’s a small thing. But for a few minutes, I see myself through his eyes – someone who goes to the store, makes sure vegetables are eaten, and knows exactly how to soothe a stuffed elephant. That’s not a bad way to be seen.
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