Yesterday as usual I walked Henry to the bus stop. We waited for a few minutes and when we saw the bus turn the corner and turned to the dad at the stop to say something clever. When I turned back there was a hand in front of my face. Holy crap, Henry was assaulting me! No, not really. He wanted me to kiss his palm. Kiss his palm, you ask? Here’s the deal:
A few years ago back when I was doing daycare, I read the sweetest book ever. It’s called "The Kissing Hand" and it’s all about a raccoon that’s afraid to go to school for the first time. His mother convinces him by saying if she kisses the palm of his hand, he can put it up to his cheek if he needed his mummy’s kiss during the day. Isn’t that sweet? There’s something about the raccoons and their little hands with their opposable thumbs. Adorable. Almost makes you forget that they are giant garbage eating rodents. So now, every morning, Henry wants me to kiss his hand and yesterday was no different. Only he caught me unawares and nearly smacked me in the face. Oh yeah, nothing says "I love you" like a bop on the nose.
kxx
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