“Eli, you are sweet.”
“I know. I’m sweet to eat. You should eat me up, Dad.”
I make a munchy tickly face as I walk over to where Eli is painting a wooden toy truck for his brother, a truck destined to be opened and soon forgotten because it is not one of Eli’s toys, and hence holds no interest for Isaac.
“But don’t really bite me.”
I bury my face in Eli’s neck and poke his pudgy belly. There is squealing and giggling. And he tastes better than anything I’ll get in my stocking.