The last couple of mornings, Owen the 2-year-old has taken to crying and latching onto my leg when I pick up my briefcase and open the door leading to the garage. Today, we had this conversation:
Me: I have to go to work…let go!
Owen: No, Dad-dy, no!
Me: Quit being a pussyboy and cowboy up!
Owen: Horsey* now?
Me: I’m in a suit. There will be no “horsey now” games this morning.
Owen: Horsey now, Dad-dy!
Me: Do you know what happens when Daddy doesn’t go to work?
Owen: HORSEY NOW!
*a game in which I’m on “all fours” as a horse, and he climbs on my back and kicks my ribs a bunch while riding. That God he doesn’t have spurs.
I shut the door and set down my briefcase. I picked his sad little body up into my arms, and we sat on the sofa. I slipped off his Thomas the Tank Engine pajama shirt, carried him to the door, opened it, and put him down on the sidewalk leading to the front porch. It was 20-something degrees outside.
Me: See this? This is how it feels to be homeless!
Me: Want some breakfast?
Owen: See-ral, Dad-dy!
Me: Too bad! The shelter lost its 501C3 designation, and the state is out of money!
Me: Now can I go to work?
Owen: Mmm hmm.
Tomorrow, we’re going to learn why Daddy needs to drink.