Buttercups

I was pushing Avery on the swing this morning, and he spied a yellow flower growing on the ground.



"Daddy?" he said. He can't say anything to anyone without confirming he has their undivided attention by saying their name and waiting for them to reply.



"Yes, Child?" I replied. I reply this way to acknowledge this little quirk of his.



"Your know what you do with buttercups?" he asked.



"What?"



"You hold them up to somebody's chin and if it's yellow, that means they like butter," he replied.



"Really?"



"Yup. That's what you do," he confirmed.



It's in these little conversations that you realize what it is to be a father, and at the same time, what it is to be a child. My mind was filled with memories of chasing my late-day shadow across the lawn, picking buttercups from underneath the pine trees and holding them up to someone's chin and asking, "do you like butter?" It's amazing in one way, but not surprising in the least in another, that these little things, like what to do with buttercups, gets passed from one generation of children to the next. I remember what it was like to be a child every time I talk to Avery--and that, I guess, is one of the gifts you enjoy when you are a father.