I got up early this morning to leave the house at 6:30 for a meeting. I made coffee for my wife (and slugged down a cup myself) and prepared my six-year-old son’s lunch for camp, sun-butter and fluff with a post-it reading “no nuts.” Then, I took a quick shower, got my electronics together in my man-bag, put on my orange shoe,s and got ready for show time. I gave my wife a kiss and started to tip-toe out of the house to avoid the wrath of my sleeping teenagers. As I left the bedroom, my son was watching Crocodile Hunter (we haven’t had the heart to tell him about Steve’s demise) with a bowl of dry Frosted Flakes I brought him.
With my hand literally on the door nob to leave, I heard a scream from upstairs, “Dad! Dad! Wait!”
Down came this muscle-bound six-year-old boy dressed only in tighty-whitey underwear, his hair blond and body tanned like some miniature Greek god. The thought crossed my mind that there must have been some mistake. This kid couldn’t be any relation to me. I was a chubby kid with a dark personality.
He flew into my arms from the fourth step. Skin against skin. My hand naturally supported his bottom as he wrapped his legs around me and nestled his head into my neck, squeezing me tight with his arms.
“I just wanted to say good bye,” his whispered.
Then he was gone. Back up the stairs to his mom.
BMOTD. Best Moment of the Day. Hands down.