His Daddy’s Son




My littlest man hates for his father to leave.

Every day, regardless of the the time of day, he slumps forlornly as his Daddy gives him good-bye love.

Every day, he follows us out to Daddy’s big green work van, reluctantly.

Every day, he makes up excuse after three year old excuse for his Daddy to stay just a few more minutes.

As we all walk back into the carport for Daddy to leave, he gets brushed past while the other children make a mad, hungry dash for the breakfast table. He stands as far out as I will let him, frantically waving bye-bye while he screams at the top of his lungs, “Bye Daddy! I love you! Be careful! Come home soon, Daddy, please!”

Every day, Daddy waves and shouts out the window, “I love you more, son! I’ll be home as soon as I can!”

And Daddy drives away.

Every day, my littlest makes a desperate sprint on his chubby little legs across the front yard, still screaming at the top of his lungs, “Daddy, I love you most!”

He runs and runs until he reaches the RV, his own boundary for being in the front yard, and leans as far as he can past it, desperately fighting the internal battle to follow his Daddy or to break his Daddy’s rule.

Every day, he makes the long walk back, slowly, almost painfully. His head hangs sadly on his chest. His arms swing despondently at his sides.

He sighs when he reaches me, standing there waiting with my arms out to sweep him into a hug.

“Momma,” he says, fighting back tears, “Daddy said he’d be back soon. When is soon?”

“Not too long, baby. He’ll be home before supper.”

My littlest man goes about his day, doing three year old things, and everything is to be like Daddy.

“I ate all my oatmeal, so I can grow and be big like my Daddy.”

“I built a house, just like my Daddy.”

“I want to do school and get smart like my Daddy.”

Through the lenses of his big, bright blue three year old eyes, his Daddy is  his hero, the greatest man on the whole face of this gigantic blue planet.

He has his Daddy’s eyes.

Every day, his world stops spinning as he groggily rubs his eyes after his nap. He stands, longer than should be possible for a three year old, his little button nose glued to the picture window. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, nothing in the world matters so much as this moment.

His Daddy’s come home!


About beyondmartha

Wife to one, mommy to many, daughter, sister, friend, homemaker, daughter to the King. That's me.

Posted on April 1, 2012, in Motherhood. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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