Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Papa papa...

The brat's papa walked in past midnight. Brat was still awake. He let out a whoopee squeal of joy when the doorbell rang and rushed, in his lopsided hypotonic way, to the door, squeaking papa papa. The reception and red carpet that papa gets is unbelievable considering that he barely spends anytime with him. Okay okay. Confession time, am unbearably jealous of the affection brat has for his father. Unfairly so, considering I am the one doing everything possible for him and the only thing the father does is play with him for around 30 minutes in a day. But one has to see his face light up with happiness when his father walks into the room, with his esperanto gibberish he tries hard to tell his father about his day, talking at the top of his voice, trying to get his attention, calling out papa papa. Trying hard to impress his father by rattling off his alphabets and his nursery rhymes. He then spent the better part of the next hour playing rough and tumble with his father who also clearly adores him but doesnt really know how much rough and tumble should go into play and how much becomes child torture. He is a heavy man, and is still to guage the pressure levels that make play fun, but brat enjoys it all. Basically he looks forward to playtime with his father. I guess whatever is rare is what is most precious. Mamma is perennially available so she doesnt really matter. Papa comes tops on his chart.

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