She had just spent the morning at a noisy playdate, the afternoon in a tantrum over the wrong color cup, and now—finally—the apartment was quiet. The castle needed a roof. The dragons needed arranging. And Rissa needed Rissa. That third-person speech (“Rissa may stay”) isn't just cute. It’s developmental armor. Toddlers and young preschoolers use their own name because they are still merging the “me” they feel inside with the “Rissa” the world sees. When she says “Rissa may stay,” she is practicing autonomy. She is rehearsing the sentence: I am a person who gets to decide where I belong.
Now, suddenly, she looks me dead in the eye and says she’d rather hang out with... herself.
My four-year-old had just referred to herself in the third person as her own preferred company. For two years, this child has been velcro. Bathroom trips? Supervised. Sleeping? Co-dependent. Grocery shopping? A contact sport of holding hands. rissa may stay with me, daddy
Wait. Rewind.
When “Rissa May Stay With Me, Daddy” Breaks Your Heart (and Fills It) She had just spent the morning at a
And right now? She belongs with herself. We spend so much time trying to be chosen . The chosen parent for bedtime. The chosen lap for story time. We wear “daddy’s girl” like a medal.
I heard: “Rissa may stay with me.”
At first, my ego stung. Does she not want the ice cream? Does she not want me*?*
