as i type, maxwell and bear are playing with rice on the table. i have them nicely set up with pots and pans, utensils, and tractors to move the rice around, make piles, plow through, farm, etc. they are both content and i am online. no small feat
we have lots of fun, the boys and i. however, when 4 o'clock rolls around and max "thinks i hears something", the boys sprint to the back door anticipating "da da".
when i arrive home, max typically greets me with "my daddy is home and my daddy is really strong". thanks max, i missed you to.
then this happened last night:
and i was reminded that daddys play differently than us moms. daddys play hard, and play usually results in injury, but the kids love it. and i love it. i love the stories, the cuddles, the hide and seek, rice play, and everything else i do with the boys; but i am not crazy about the whole being wrestled to the ground, jumped on, and ridden aspect. so i happily relinquish that to my baby daddy.
we make a good team, me and brad.