My oldest son has recently become accustomed to asking who it is whenever there’s a knock on the door. All well and good. This is a step up from his previous approach, which was just to drop whatever he was doing and run like a herd of elephants to get me in whatever room of the house I happened to be in. Either way, they’re going to know we’re home.
Though we don’t get many visitors. The only person who really knocks is J, and that’s when he’s running back inside really quick and left his key in the car ignition. Thus, “who is it?” has morphed into “Daddy, is that you?”.
Which has been fine, since it usually is.
Until it isn’t.
The other day, J had run out to the store or somewhere when shortly after Jedi heard a rustling at the door, like someone fumbling about. Thinking he would be nothing but helpful, he ran up to the door, expecting to turn the locks for his father.
“Daddy?”, he asked, his voice rising in implicated anticipation. “Is that you?”.
His question met by silence from the other side. And probably a quick scan of all the women he’s been with and any unknown children he may be responsible for.
Because it wasn’t.
And that’s why I’m now embarrassed to say hello to our mailman.