Per my daily chores, as outlined by my wife, I was washing the dishes, doing what I do and minding my own.
I was suds deep in a salad bowl when I felt a tug on my pants. I looked down and saw the top of a tired little boy- one that had refused to nap only moments before. I continued with my task. I’m not afforded such luxuries as breaks.
I started to sing him a song about caked on food and cutting through the grease, my big finish was going to be something along the lines of “you’re soaking in it.” I looped through another stanza, waiting for the rhyme scheme to play out.
He had been dancing on my foot up until the moment he curled up on it. Then he was asleep. I let my song fade away and washed the last dish before taking him someplace warm and dry and where the floor was soft.