“Breakfast in bed sounds good to me, don’t you think, Daddy?”
My wife took off on her own for 10 days to England, and the kids said, “We’ll miss you.”
Tears came, and a long cry by the youngest.
I tried to cheer up the six-year-old by jumping into a Superman pose with my arms held up straight, my chest puffed out and my face beaming.
“Don’t worry, you’ve got Super Daddy!”
The six-year-old looked me up and down and then let her head drop again before continuing to cry.
Her solace?
She said she’d be fine if she could sleep that night on Mummy’s side of the bed because it smells of Mummy. I had planned to do the same for the same reason, but I couldn’t admit anything of the sort. Got to be a man and all. So I told her, “Sure.”
The morning came and I got up to fix myself a cup of coffee on a lazy Sunday, and the youngest woke up and looked at me with my fresh coffee as I was about to get back in bed with a new book, and she said, “Hey,” rather more composed and cheerful. “Hey, what about breakfast in bed? Like you bring coffee to Mummy every morning?”
Her brother and sister soon joined us and we had breakfast in bed made by the man around the house.
