These days, when they want to be off with their friends, or to be left alone in their rooms, I sometimes pine for the times when they heard me come through the door and came running to me, screaming, "Daddy's home! Daddy's home."
In November of 2008, I was to head to Chicago, on business, my kids plead with me not to go. I told them that I would be home as soon as I could, that I would be gone from Sunday to Friday night. That we would have the following weekend to spend together.
The night before I left, my kids clung to me, wanted me to read them stories, to sing them a song before bed. Heading upstairs, both girls insisted that I carry them, at the same time. I happily obliged.
DW captured us on our journey up the stairs.
They weren't going to be this size forever. I wasn't going to be able to carry them for much longer. There's no way that I could carry them upstairs, together. I'm not even sure I could carry them one at a time.
Every once in a while, my teenage girls still need to be next to their dad. They'll curl up with me, on the sofa, while we watch a movie. They don't say it, but there are times when I come home, I can see them look up from whatever was occupying them before I opened the door, and I can see in their eyes.
Daddy's home.
No comments:
Post a Comment