Home yesterday afternoon. The boys drop toys and ditch bikes and jump off swings to come hug me, before I’ve even all the way out of my truck. Isaiah insists on being held. He wraps his arms and legs around me, like he is a bear cub. I lug him and my luggage and my computer bag into the house.
“Daddy,” he says, peering around my arm at the brown leather bag hanging from my shoulder, “is that your purse?”
“No. It’s a . . . a man bag.”
“Oh, a man bag. It’s Daddy’s man bag.”
Somehow this sounds patronizing, even though he doesn’t mean it that way.
