Here’s an old story from 2007…
I had been home about fifteen minutes without even a greeting when my husband turned his car into the drive, his appearance announced by Younger chanting, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” as he scrambled noisily down the stairs.
“Younger,” I bellowed indignantly, jerking him to a halt in the middle of his mad dash along the hallway to the door. “You never, never say, ‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,’ when I get home.”
“I only did that for Daddy because I haven’t seen him all day.”
I merely glared at him with lifted eyebrows.
“I didn’t know you were home,” he tried again.
My eyebrows climbed higher.
“I love you?” he finally offered.
All that finagling charm in one small seven-year-old body. No wonder it spills from the one orifice he usually has open the widest.