Someone, please stop my head from exploding.

It's either going to be my head or my heart, and I'm really not sure which it's going to be.

Tonight, as we were having a buffet of munchies for dinner (having eaten really well at GVD for lunch), Medium Fry looked at Hubby and said, "You'wre not our wreal daddy."

If I felt like I'd had a knife plunged into my chest, I can only imagine how Hubby must have felt.

The Fries had seen their biological father on Saturday for visitation, who hates the "Daddy S" moniker that the girls have given him.

Hubby replied, "I do all the things a real daddy does."

"But you'wre not our wreal daddy.  Daddy S is!"

And that was about when my hands started itching to be wrapped around my brother's throat.

Because I knew he had to have been called Daddy S during visitation, and he must have really expounded on how Hubby is not their daddy.  And how they shouldn't call Hubby Daddy.  And how only he is their daddy.

"Daddy S," Hubby said carefully, obviously trying to find the right way to explain the true nature of Bro's relationship to the girls, "is your father.  But I do all the things for you that a real daddy does.  I play with you and keep you safe and love you and take care of you."

It was easy to tell that Medium was really mostly just parroting Bro's words.  But it still hurt.  And I had the nearly-insatiable desire to email him and tell him he is never to destroy his children's (because he is so adamant about them being his daughters, and his alone) love for their Daddy-Uncle that way again.  And remind him that the human heart has an amazing capacity for love, and he shouldn't try to stifle that in them.  And that they can call him Daddy S and still love him, even as they address Hubby as Daddy and love him, too.  And point out that Hubby has been more of a father to the girls than Bro ever was.

And then whack him soundly about the head with a wet pool noodle.

Medium came downstairs awhile after this conversation, having been sent upstairs to get into her jammies and ready for bed.  My heart was still twinging over what my brother had obviously tried to drill into the girls over the course of visitation.

Somehow, in her conversation with Hubby while I sat and quietly (and hopefully inobtrusively) brooded, the topic turned to whether or not Daddy was strong.

Medium giggled.  "You'wre nawt stwrong!"

Hubby scooped her up, peals of little-girl laughter filling the den.  He cuddled her tight to his chest, locking his hands together behind her back.  "Say 'Daddy is strong!'"

"Daddy's nawt stwrong!" she shrieked, giggling.

"Say 'Daddy is strong!'"

"Daddy's nawt stwrong!"

I'm not sure who was having more fun, and I remembered the stories Hubby had told about his dad wrestling with him when he was a small boy, demanding that he say "Your mother's a rat!" before he would release the hold.

"If I wasn't strong, how could I protect you?" Hubby asked.

"Daddy's nawt stwrong!" Medium shrieked with glee.

"Wiwll joo mawwy me?"

"Prove it!" Hubby challenged.  "Push down my foot!"

It took about ten minutes...

And all of Medium's body weight, sitting on Hubby's shin...

But she did finally get his foot from mid-air to the floor.

And while I still wanted to storm the 150+ miles to where Bro lives and smack him silly with my pool noodle, I knew.

Medium knows who her wreal Daddy is.

He's sitting right over there, on the other end of the couch.