We went to a park in the evening. Mago loved swinging (on this same swing Tia photographed him on). Laughed his head off every time I pushed him. While he and Tia were going down the spiral slide I wandered off on the grass and found an unbranded Little “Official League” foul-ball in the middle of the park.
When we left Mago was very unhappy to leave, and I said “I found this ball for you!” and handed it to him. He was instantly content. At home I started for work from home in the evening (I can do overtime work from home). When I explained to him I was working and went downstairs to do this, he cried “I want my daddy!” and I said “I’m sorry baby, I’m working.” A few minutes after I started work he came downstairs, held the baseball up with both hands, simply, a bit happily, and smacked it down on the computer keyboard in front of me, holding it there, not a word, only looking up at me. These thoughts crossed my mind: How American can you get? Yeah, I think a father should play ball with his son. You win, kid. I can stay up late to work (it’s not like I don’t stay up anyway, even though I shouldn’t).