As we sat down to breakfast on the first morning of my parents visit to celebrate the inauguration of our next president, Marcel directed the discussion. Specifically, she directed everyone to tell a story.
She was first and, not surprisingly, her story was all about her.
My wife’s story was next. Her story wasn’t about Marcel. I could tell from Marcel’s facial expression that that wasn’t what was wanted so, when my turn came, I made up a beautiful story about my wonderful daughter.
My father was after me. He could also tell that he was supposed to talk about Marcel. He couldn’t quite bring himself to full complaince with the unsaid directive, though, so he started a satirical tale about my oldest child.
“Once upon a time there was camera…”
Marcel knew what was up, though, and immdiately cut him off with a curt, “Next!”
My mother, however, had no intention of letting down one of hers.
“Once upon a time, there was this beautiful grand-daughter…”
Marcel, not needing explicit explanation that the grand-daughter being described was her and not one of the two other grand-daughters, beamed like the morning sun!
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your child wrapping their small arms around your neck and laying their head on your chest.
Marcel didn’t do it as an infant. If you picked her up, she might lay her head on your chest but her arms would certainly be hanging down by her side. Usually, though, her head was on a swivel trying to figure out what was going around her. Marcel didn’t start hugging until she was a toddler. Marcel was much more of a kisser.
Tristan, on the other hand, hugged almost immediately. In recent weeks, she’s started to develop swivel-itis and, thus, the feeling might not last. Yet, a full bottle in a quiet room can still, almost always, induce a nice, long hug.
The result is that, now, I get that feeling all of the time from both of my daughters.
And, thus, my life is sweet, loving and full.
Every parent knows the drill.
A crash, a cry, you rush to the scene but all that’s really hurt is peace, not piece, of mind. Thus, a quick kiss and rub, with perhaps minor admonishment, allows everybody to go back to their happy state.
In reality, this time was no different. There was the crash, then the cry, then the rush to the scene. The difference came when my wife arrived.
“What’s wrong, darling!”
Marcel pulled down her pants and pointed to her butt.
“Boo-boo!”
My wife must’ve hesistated. Marcel wouldn’t tolerate a deviation from the routine. So she insisted.
“Kiss it.”
Then the flow of events proceeded as normal and everybody went back to their happy state.
I think.
The day after Christmas, we went to my mother’s house. Amazingly, my non-Christmas clebrating, Jehovah’s Witness grandmother had come to visit bringing a slew of that side of the clan to visit. I couldn’t miss that.
Marcel and, for her first time ever, Tristan got to hang out with many of their paternal cousins. Tristan tended toward the older relatives who coddled and cuddled her constantly. Marcel, meanwhile, ran wild with the younger cousins. This was from the moment we got there and until our last day.
There was some time when we were away from the ruckus, though. Bedtime. (We slept at my mother’s house while most of the activity was at my youngest brother’s home.) But, even then, the fun wasn’t far from mind.
In fact, our first morning began away from the action at my mother’s house with Marcel yelling for me. She had awoke in a relatively strange bed and wasn’t sure were to go, so she called for me to come get and guide her. I walked into her bedroom and told her that she could get out bed and join the rest of us.
You’d think her mood would be frightened or, at least, angry, but it wasn’t. Instead, she eagerly climbed out of bed and, as she walked to exit the room, kindly informed of what was to come.
“It’s a beautiful day, daddy.”
