Saturday, November 22, 2014
We like to hop on top of Pop.
STOP You must not hop on Pop.
No, actually they must hop on Pop. You can hear it in earnest, in their gleeful squeals.
"Daddy, we want to jump on you!"
All right. Fine. Jump, jump, jump around. Jump, jump, jump around. Ugh. Whoosh--
"Daddy, more jumps!"
Bryce, on the other hand, is much lighter and easier to deflect, but is more fearlessly random than her big sister. There's no time to set or reset with her -- as soon as I think I've got her pattern figured out, I don't, and the shelling of Daddy mountain commences while my core workouts continue.
"No more jumps."
"Yes, more jumps!"
And then there's the daddy-handling of picking them up and flipping them upside and landing them safely on our couch or cuddle chair, kind of like a kiddie catch-and-release program.
Sigh. But of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, even if days later I feel beat up, bruised with specific muscles and tendons contorted and sore.
I know these days will one day pass, and that the Mama and I will reminisce about them all while the girls grow into young strong, caring women and have lives of their own.
But these days are now, and I want to ensure they have a strong, caring male role model and an involved father in their life they can trust (even if I'm a little gruff sometimes), one that I never had as a child, only experiencing later as a teenager with my Pop (although I never hopped on him, of which he was surely thankful and grateful). Their pragmagical Mama's got everything else covered, so for that I'm always thankful and grateful.
Yes, these days are now, so let's keep the Pop hopping popping.
Stop, Bryce! You must not hop on Pop. Ugh.