He collapses into me. Like a melodramatic actor from a 1950s stage play, he will fall into my arms while weeping over being denied a loaf of bread he tried to steal from the kitchen.
It’s easy to forget to make the memories when you’re busy running ragged into the ground.
An outburst like that is the last step of his ultimate frustration and he does it only when all other avenues of communication fail him.
That was the plan…until noon. Suddenly, she remembered that we had movies and ice cream at home.
He used the back of his hand to nudge the iPad back to me. It was his way of saying, “Get out here with that garbage.”
I want to be the fun dad, but I also want to be a good dad. It’s a delicate balance sometimes.
The box is tossed in front of the front door, the bag is almost completely empty, and, mixed between the pieces, are squashed particles of cereal dust.
My son turns television watching into an all-out physical event.
That guilt was because I was still learning the difference between hoping and needing. I was hoping my son would speak. As I’ve come to realize though, I didn’t need it.
I didn’t get mad at him for an impulse that he obviously couldn’t control in that moment. I wanted to. A voice in my head said, “Yo. Freak out.”