My youngest son is in love with his daddy. Pathetically. His preference for his daddy over every other living breathing thing is practically palpable. He’s like a Pavlovian dog. When the door from the garage opens, this begins, “daddaddaddaddaddaddaddaddaddaddad,” and it only stops when he’s in dad’s arms.
You would not believe the disappointment on his face when he realizes it’s just me. I’m trying not to let it hurt my feelings.
Dad trumps every other good thing in his life; ice cream, breaking VCRs, you name it. Daddy’s better than all of that. I have truly never seen anything like this adoration. It is the sweetest, purest, most unabashed devotion.
I am taking notes. It is making me see my hubs in a whole different way. What is it the little guy loves so much? There must be more to my hubs than meets the eye – though he’s always been soft on them.
I remember I once loved this man the same way, with unadulterated, unfiltered, unabashed abandon. My mom used to get mad at me for all the public displaying of affection.
But I’ve let decades (that’s right, 20 years next year) of dirty-socks-on-the-floor-type irritations chip away at my feelings. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy, fiercely, protectively, and wholly. He’s my world. Frankly though, my love pales in comparison to that of the two-footer in the house.
I’m wondering, if I were that happy to see my hubs when he comes home, jumping up and down til I’m in his figurative (or literal) arms, wouldn’t that be something? Why in the world aren’t I doing that? Inside, I am that happy he is home. What harm does it do to show it? None, I’ll bet.
My goodness! I love how these little people in my house teach me so much. Who knew a lesson in how to be a good wife would come from the littlest of boys straight into my heart?