I didn’t actually mean to welcome Timothy back at Arrivals with Henry and I covered in blood. But that’s what happened. We sat and shared a hot chocolate while we waited for his aeroplane to land, and then Henry buzzed off the excitement by running in small circles around the pushchair. Then he was on the floor, with a fat bust lip and blood everywhere, and if you’ve ever tried to make a twenty-month-old bite on a cold baby wipe while he gushes all over your cardigan (because that’s all you have) then you’ll know you can pretty much forget it. Hey Daddy-o, welcome back. Do you like the sign we made you? This handprint was done with paint. This one…not so much.
We’ve been giddy today, getting back to three of us. Oh, adult conversation. Oh, hideous maternity shopping made better with a second opinion, and strawberry milk and sugar doughnuts in the middle of a shopping mall. Would I have had the idea to let Henry go and touch the crane he’s been ogling all week on our street? No, that’s the sort of thing that would occur to Daddy. It made his whole morning and beyond. Despite the fat lip.