The door to the home office, turns out, is decorative.
I type intently, when I hear his little hands wiggling the handle.
I take an initial breath of annoyance. But as he peers around the door with a surprised smile of victory, my dismay is put into proper context.
“Good job!”, I tell him. He smiles as if he has just won the Super Bowl. He quickly realizes that he had no further plan, so he invents new ones. He sees the pen on the desk, and, grasping it, now looks for something to write on.
“No, those are my work papers.”
I hand him a blank sheet, but the idea of drawing seems a distant memory. He’s now eyeing the printer.
“Don’t touch the buttons, please.”
“Want me to get your papers, Daddy?”, hoping I will print something that he can deliver to me. (Never mind that the printer is basically touching my leg.)
“Get ready, it’s coming!”
He has the look of Christmas morning on his face. The printer beeps and buzzes.
“Not yet. Wait until it stops.”
The printer returns to its sleep. He seems stunned, waiting for me to give the go-ahead.
“O.K.!” He grasps the sheet and extends it to me, now crumpled.
“Thank you!”, I shout, and he bounces up and down.
Then, as if being summoned by an inner voice, he turns with purpose toward the door and runs out.
I stand and push the door closed. For now.