Pat. Pat. Pat.

That, to me, is a wonderful sound. It’s the sound of my daughter, Marcel, walking through the house.

Everybody in my home (we also rent out our English basement) loves that sound (somehow, it’s the only sound that floats between the main house and the rental unit).

Pat. Pat. Pat.

It’s the first sound I hear in the morning. It means Marcel has awakened and is coming to join my wife and I in our bed for a glorious, morning snuggle. It means, even more gloriously, that she isn’t in a crib anymore and can get into our bed without me fighting with my wife over which one of us has to get up to get her. (Finally, I get to have both my bed and my baby, every time!)

Sometimes nature calls before Marcel does and I hear that wonderful sound from my throne. If I’m really lucky, I next hear Marcel whine for me. I just love that, in no small part because, on those days, my wife has to concede that I’m the star for the day.

Once, when Marcel was only a ghostly figure on the sonogram, my wife and I were daydreaming what life would be like with her. I teased my wife that our days would be filled with the adoration of the world’s biggest fan.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy!”, I screamed and acted out what were sure to be Marcel’s breathless calls for attention by running up to my wife’s very pregnant butt with tickling fingers and laughter.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy!”, in turn, somehow gave my very pregnant wife the energy to giggle, hop and squeal.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy”, I yelled, and “giggle, hop, squeal”, she went until I caught the wife and, in my best daughter imitation, whispered…

“Where’s Daddy?”

The giggling, hopping and squealing stopped, but not my cackling.

I love to hear that sound.