This morning, Liberty woke Mercy before light arrived in the world, and they decided to join me in my big bed. I hoped they would fall asleep again so that I could get just a tad more rest. Instead, they shared the pillow next to mine and wrestled playfully. Occasionally, an arm or leg would jab my side or abruptly smack into my face, ensuring that my dozing was fitful at best.

I finally gave up dozing and rolled to my side facing them. Mercy's head had landed near Liberty's feet, and her feet rested on the pillow next to Liberty's face. Liberty threw her arms around Mercy's foot and began petting it. "Aw, my doggy," she cooed. She touched a ticklish spot, and Mercy giggled. "Such a nice doggy, right Mommy?"

I nodded barely. One of my eyes remained shut.

Liberty continued hugging Mercy's foot to her cheek and caressing it. Then she connected her gaze with mine and proclaimed, "I love my doggy so much, I'm going to name it Mommy."

I have a foot named after me.


Should I be proud, or humbled?
1 Response
  1. Que Says:

    Great story. I think you should be both. I would never be so lucky to have the "foot" named after me. Fathers always get the tail end of everything.

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