Waiting for Papa
My mother tells me that when I was a little fella, I would spend the late afternoon standing on the couch looking out the window for my father to come home. When he did, I would quickly sit down and act like I was absorbed in a picture book. But he was never fooled. In he’d come and we’d wrestle.
Kids waiting for you to come home is one of the pleasures in life. They are so eager. Its mostly the younger ones, though the older ones sometimes rush over with news they’ve been busting to tell you.
A few days ago my youngest was sitting on the porch waiting for me. When I pulled in, she lit up and ran to me. “Dad!” I lit up too. Sometimes she is just happy to see me. Sometimes she has important information to impart. That day was one of the latter. “Mom and [another sister] went for a walk,” she said as if it were a serious grievance. Then her mood changed. “I went poopy in the potty!” I held her hand and walked with her back to the house.
Coming home is probably my favorite part of the day.
They grow up. There are different joys. But they no longer sit on the porch, waiting for you to come home.
I will not believe in any universe where these moments and every one of these moments do not last forever.
Filed under: Deseret Review | Tags: all things before my face
Bruce Charlton
February 6, 2018
Another stunner. I can’t write about these things for myself – so I am glad that you do.
JRL in AZ
February 6, 2018
Amen to this, Brother G!
My two youngest are still consistent in their running, skipping, shouting, welcome-home greetings. Talk about making everything worth it. The next oldest sometimes comes to the door, but the rest just sort of look up and say hi.
One of my fond childhood memories was when Daddy came home and sat in his chair. We kids would tussle over who got to pull of his boots. Then he would hold his feet just right so we had to pull and pull, and then he would change the angle so the boots came flying off and we fell down. It was fun every time.
E.C.
February 6, 2018
I remember that when I was very small, I truly believed that Dad was a giant, and I was slightly in awe of him – but I would never go to sleep until he got home, no matter how late that was, which annoyed my mother terribly since he often got home after 10:00.
When my little brother came along, Dad’s job was to read to us when he got home. He did voices better than Mom, so we were usually gleeful when we saw him coming. One of the funniest things I remember about my childhood was my brother pulling at Dad’s eyebrows or eyelids and saying, “Dad! You can’t read with your eyes shut!” – Dad was usually dog-tired from a long day in the shop.