“Go look at the door, Booey.”
I don’t know why he has to question everything I say. I didn’t say, “Go jump off a cliff, Booey.” I just told him to go look out the door. I was seated at the end of the table in the kitchen of the dining room, facing the window. I could see my husband walking down the sidewalk, calm and handsome. I knew the boys had been missing their daddy since we left a few days before, leaving him at home.
“Just do what I say, would you?”
He flopped out of his chair where he had been coloring and flopped his way to the door of the cottage. He slowly opened it, acting as if I had asked him to carry a large weight across burning hot coals. I rolled my eyes behind his back. Eventually he stuck his little head out the door and focused on the figure quickly nearing the corner of our cottage.
He ran out the door and into his arms. I smiled. Moment accomplished, however teeth-gritting it was to get there.
The scene repeated itself a few minutes later when BigBrother ran into the cottage, hot and sweaty and brandishing his light saber. He was about to ask me something when he saw his daddy sitting at the table.
I’d feel jealous, the love that is so readily and easily bestowed on their beloved daddy. But I find comfort in knowing that I’m part of that love, that I make little moments happen, that I capture moments and commit them to memory, to digital file, to words.