Such a Cliche

Our friends Andy and Annie (I know) came over last night for pizza and The Dog Whisperer, and they brought their 22-month-old daughter Izzy.

Izzy is a good-natured toddler, flaxen of hair and with huge owly eyes. When we see them in the hallway she always has a friendly, if unintelligable, thing to say.

We settled down in the living room with pizza, beer, apple juice and cheese cut into the shape of Mickey Mouse. And after about half an hour of cat chasing and Lego playing, Izzy wobbled over to Damon, hitched herself up into his lap and leaned back into his chest.

And my heart just exploded. I was surprised that no one could see or hear it.

She spent the rest of the night alternately sitting on his legs, contentedly eating cheese and pizza toppings or practicing headbutting on him.

And through all of my sentimental, mooney enjoyment the portion of my brain that is permanently set to “cynic” was mocking me. That’s okay though, because it’s important to exercise self mockery in order to justify the mockery of others.

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