I ate your eggs…
After dropping you off at daycare, I ate your eggs this morning when I got home.
It was a fast morning, too fast. You slept in, I had clients starting at 8am which I try to avoid. I had to get back to my desk to work. There was no time. We were in a rush.
Pushed out the door by competing commitments.
Earlier, I made your eggs while you were still sleeping, hoping you would wake up and eat them first thing. Who was I kidding? I don’t eat the first thing when I wake up, why did I expect you to?
You needed a slower morning than I gave you. You needed more time. Time, I took from you while trying to provide for you. All you wanted was more time, but I had clients. We had to go.
Half the ride to daycare you cried. It was too fast. There was no time to be. To pause. To wake up. No time to play, not enough time with mommy.
The other half of the ride we looked at the big trucks on the road. We saw a choo choo. We looked at how green the trees were becoming. You smiled. We talked about how we would go to the choo choo park after daycare. The park next to the train tracks.
We arrived at daycare I parked. I opened your door and with a smile, you said, “Hi, Dada”.
“Hi son, I’m sorry this morning was so fast.”
You smiled again and said, “Dada”.
I’m looking forward to pick up this afternoon and taking as much time as we both need at the choo choo park.
Life gets fast and what matters most is often what gets left behind.
My son is my greatest teacher, and he is patient and forgiving.
I don’t want to eat your eggs.
Being a father is weird.
