Holding my son's hand

My boy grabbed my hand  in church this morning and said he wanted to hold it...like this. I leaned over and whispered to him that I loved it. He leaned over, smiled big, and said he did, too. I love being his father...

The night fishin sheriff

 I hear little man making noise in his room long after bedtime so I go in and find...sister passed out, a lamp on, a measuring tape under the edge of his covers, his cowboy hat tossed in in the corner of his bed, his sheriff's badge and belt at his feet, his bow and arrow half unstrung, the arrow string tied around his knight's helmet, and a little boy peeking out at me from under the covers. He says to me, in ever so soft a voice and with a glint in his eye and a slight smile on his face, "I'm fichin (fishin), Papa."

What's a fisherman Papa to do?!

I half-heartedly scold him, turn out the light, tuck him in, kiss him on his head and tell him I love him. As I was typing this, I decided to check back in on him. In a matter of less than five minutes, he has totally sacked out but the butt of his 'fishing pole' is tucked under his back while the tip is still hanging, line and all, over the edge of his bed...still fishin.

That's enough to warm a fella's heart.