How is it that no matter how much joy and happiness these brats bring into our lives, that moment when one of us - depending on who’s been walking around carrying/rocking him – mouths “sleeping yet?” – and the other smiles and nods, and we air high-five (wi-five?) is the best, most satisfactory moment of the day? The sheer relief of having conquered another day without any major mishaps, meltdowns, embarrassing moments (“Baby, say thank you to aunty.” “Nooooo.”) is unbeatable.
And so we proceed to finally settle down and talk about our day. Get a little nightcap, watch a movie. Or if I’m chasing a deadline, get some work done.
But then how is it that when I’m finally done for the day, and go from room to room checking windows, gas knobs, picking up toys, solitary socks, I have this inexplicable need to smell his t shirt, run a hand through his hair and kiss him, not caring if I wake him, all this while pretending I’ve been cutting onions.
It’s like this sign that hangs inside my pediatrician’s office that says – Kids are a pain in the neck when they’re around, and a pain in the heart when they’re not.