I rode my bike to work yesterday in an attempt to stave off my impending heart attack. Luckily, I got out of work at 6:30, which meant if I rode home as hard as I could, I’d catch Elijah before he went to bed.
I made it into the house just as Di was in the last, best stages of “nigh nigh,” which consists of hugging him in the rocking chair and thinking of how much money you’d accept in exchange for said moment, which at last count is a Quadrillion Bajagillion dollars.
I ran upstairs, stinking of a Chicago cab with no air conditioner in mid July, and snatched Eli out of Di’s hands. Diana wondered how someone she sleeps with on a regular basis could make such a smell.
Eli didn’t seem to mind my stench and resumed his hugging. I convinced him to smooch me by shoving his face into my face. Then, I introduced him to the Eskimo Kiss. Isn’t “Eskimo” a non-PC term? I believe they prefer to be called Inuit. Anyhoo, Eli got a huge kick out of the Inuit Kiss and laughed the laugh that gets me up in the morning.
Eli then showed me affection in his own special way. By shoving his finger in my eyeball. I have no idea where he got this, but if he likes you, he slowly, and rather carefully, pokes you in the eye.
Maybe that is where they got the cliché “Blinded by love.”
In a completely unrelated story, every morning I leave through the back door of the house (to throw the CIA off my trail). I say bye and I love you to the team and then set up the baby gate on our back stairs to prevent Eli from doing a double gainer.
Apparently, this morning well after I left Eli padded up to the baby gate and clung to it calling, “Dada? Dada?” down the stairs. Which explains why I felt my heart shatter on the commuter train.
p.s. You know what never ceases to be funny? Wearing pajamas on your head.
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