Stepping through the door, when I get back from work, is characterized by a funny ritual; hide-and-seek that is not really hide-and-seek. The Little Woman is conspicuously absent from the welcoming committee and I think I know where she’s hiding. So I search.
The search itself is a charade because it is a small living room. There are only so many places a three-year-old can hide. But as I ‘search,’ asking pointlessly, “Where are you?” even as she giggles, unable to hold down the laughter welling in her chest, I can feel the stress of the day lifting.
I take long to get to the place she so poorly hidden herself, as little people are wont to do, thinking they are well out of sight, while the whole time, something about them; a small foot sticking out from under the bed or the mop of unruly hair distinctly holding them up like a beacon, is providing that come-on to the It (me) that’s doing the search.