I was moping around the house, half-sick and taking stock of all of the things I should have been doing but wasn’t.
Clean off the bookshelf
Leaky showerhead
Touch-up paint for the door trim
Laundry
“Can we read tonight, Daddy?”
Hazel’s to-do list is a mile long but only full of things she wants to do.
“Yeah, we can read. You gotta brush your teeth first, though.”
She took the win, and I flopped on the bed, like, a full faceplant, rolling over onto my back and looking up at the ceiling fan that’s been broken for 9 years.
I turned back onto my stomach, head twisted, cheek flat against the bed.
“Hazel?”
She turned around, her toothbrush humming along.
“Was I too hard on you guys today?”
I’m usually pretty loose goosey, but the girls were bunching up in midfield, so I was trying to get them to understand the 2-3-1 formation.
She held up one finger, turned, and spit into the sink. A quick cup of water, then she walked over to me, her eyes level with mine — she’s beyond her years when it comes to sensing emotions.
“Dad, you’re, like, the King of Fun.”
It’s amusing how she chooses to call me Dad instead of Daddy sometimes, like a teenager is in there telling her exactly what to say: Call him Dad. Trust me. He’ll take you more seriously.
“Thanks, hon.”
She climbed up onto my back and nestled her perfect little head in between my shoulder blades, her legs on the back of my legs, wiggling triumphantly.
Another win.
It felt good, laying there underneath her, and underneath our broken ceiling fan: the King of Fun, recharging under the weight, summoning a few more heroic acts before bedtime.
“I like this,” I said.
“Me too,” she said, taking a dramatic exhale to put forth an understanding that we stay a while.
Which we did.