Your father told me this weekend I was dressed like a Civil War re-enactor, yet, I miss him.
It’s Monday morning 9:00 a.m. and he’s long gone at work, which means we start another week of really not seeing each other for any great length of time until the weekend–unless you count technically sleeping next to each other at night, but then our eyes our closed, so we’re not really “seeing,” are we?
Last night you gave Daddy a kiss for the first time, Baby Girl. You are becoming quite the kissing bandit. You love all of your stuffed animals. I blush sometimes watching you with Mickey Mouse. His poor black-cherry of a nose. That thing is soaked.
“Can I have a kiss?” I say, and you stomp on over and plant one on me, right on the lips.
“Can I have a kiss?” last night your father said, and you looked at me with this big smile on your face, like, “I’m gonna do this!” And you stomped on over, planted one on him, right on the lips.
“Yaaaay!” We both busted out clapping, making a fuss, as we parents do for everything. (I asked what a birdy does and you flapped your wings! You know what a spoon is! You said thank you! Oh, if only for one day the bar of achievement for us could be so low–please, someone, anyone, just ask me what a cow says, I will tell you!–we could all use the jolt of self-esteem.)
You got really embarrassed, Baby Girl. You did not like us clapping. Your lip went down, and you began to cry.
You were so cute, so angry.
Your dad and I caught eyes with each other, and quietly laughed.
It’s moments like this that I miss throughout the week…
–“How you do like my shoes?”
“They’re nice, if you’re going to re-enact the Civil War.”–
My shoes, on the other hand, I will defend to the death.