{CROSSWAYSNET}

I measured Canon Scott in the crook of my arm today as we spun around the living room. Ten pounds and half again as long since I first held him six months ago. He seemed to enjoy a quick two-step.

And then it hit me.

I won't have this for very long.


His brother began the negotiations with me last night as all 8-year-olds do: "Daddy, when do I get to start calling you 'Dad?' I think I'm the only one in my class that still uses 'Daddy.'"

I winced.

"I guess it comes gradually," I replied. "I don't call your Papa "Daddy" anymore, either. But remember: you never need to call me something because of somebody else. I probably started using 'Dad' around 10 or so."

Cade nodded and gave me a wrestle-hug goodnight.

Wrestling is what we do now. Can't remember the last time I danced with him.

My girls will fly around me on tip toes for years as we live out each verse of "Cinderella." But my sons?...

As long as Canon will hold close and let me lead, thrilled to the motion and the rhythm, I will dance with him and smell the top of his head. And someday, it will all be wrestling.