Can you imagine the elation, so stark, seeming sinister to Satan, as I walk through the door of the home we own.
It doesn't matter if I made a mistake at work, got a speeding ticket on the way, and lost a fortune in our retirement. The moment my face glances through that door and I hear the unbridled jubilous pitter patter of a cherube learning to walk, nothing else seems to matter.
"DADA!" I hear as our child, with outstretched arms, journeys the treacherous 20 feet to the door, all by themself.
Their smile so wide and weighty, making it difficult to balance. Arms swaying softly - "Careful, now! We only learned to walk last week."
Fingers writhing like the worms we found yesterday. Touched. Caressed. All things mundane are now new again when teaching a child.
Quickly now, before balance is lost. They fall forward, knowing daddy will be there to catch them.
My palms, twice the size of their little head, fit faithfully under their arms, bent over, picking them up and pulling them up to my face.
Of course you already know what happens next! Cheeks as soft as clouds, billowy as pillows, deserving of my "welcome home" kisses.
And you, the wife, always attentive, there to kiss me too. And together we "oooh" and "ahhh" over our child's artistic creation of the day. A crayon coated image of all three of us. The avant-garde, undeveloped, low dexterity love that I've always wanted to see on paper.
If you want to know more about me, there's lots of info in my post history. For now, if you think that scene is something you want, message me and we'll talk.
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