It’s not about words. It’s about communicating.
My son isn’t a doctor. He’s doesn’t line up shoes or toys. He doesn’t scream when hugged. He doesn’t count cards, toothpicks, or, well, anything. He’s none of those things
Even when I play-fight with him, he giggles and wraps his arms around me for hugs.
It’s times like this when I’m forced to bare witness to the barest of witnesses.
Defending the home team isn’t just about the people who live in your actual home. It’s about the people who live in your heart.
As his dad, I’ve winced in worry through the years when he would dash away down the block, pull his TV off the nightstand, or try to submerge his face in the bathtub. Him? He’s cool.
He did his usual strut across the front lawn on both his legs – even the crooked one that appeared ready to snap in half.
I knew what was coming. I think you do too. Her goodbye that day would be her final one.
There’s always a pressing issue that needs his attention in another room.
It filled me with pride. I like to think that he shared in that feeling too. He earned it.