Big bloody hug (1 part 2-year old, 2 parts 4-year old).

A four-year old carefully measures out ingredients for the entree he's preparing in his outdoor kitchen

Got blood on my shirt
reddish-brown, mixed with garden dirt.

From bloody nose on poor sweet little face buried on my shoulder.

Smeared blood on sweet face,
dirty hands,
wrapped around neck,

he fell or tripped or jumped on or off something,
all within a 20-second slash of time’s window.

He’ll survive, but now he needs to get his
dirt-blood snuggled on me.

If the measure of a man
is determined by the patience he shows children,
some days I am Tom Thumb.

If a great dad you can tell
by ever the lack of raised voice or irritated yell,

then my trophy case is barren.

He squirmed and grunted and
swapped his bloody tears to my shirt,
and

maybe I’m okay
maybe I’ll be okay,
maybe I’m doing okay,

and maybe we’re doing okay
if we manage to not
be irredeemably horrible in between episodes of greatness or mediocrity,

and
maybe we’re doing okay
if we try,
and try,
and try to always do the right in the moments that matter extra,

like the bloody ones where ya just gotta pick up and hug.

A big bloody hug.

Now:

a yell. Not me.

Far, far down the hallway.

Daddy! Daddy!

I interpret this shriek as a Level II, meaning minor emergency in the non-life threatening, non-bloody nose category.

I sigh and walk down with Mr. Bloody Nose sniffling on my beard,
brownish-red blood dripping to the floor I should probably Cinderella sometime.

"What is it?" I ask Young Yeller.

He sighs apologetically and shifts to a more comfortable explaining position.

"I accidentally got poop all over the toilet seat,"
he says, from his perch on the toilet seat.
"I’m sorry."

Some minutes past post-bloody nose, with a face that appears to have recovered from the described mishap

I confirm the accuracy of this apology.
It’s brownish-brown.

I grim-smile and one-hand wipe,
and

vow to hug this one hard too.

Satisfaction (4)

This is really satisfying,
he said,
rolling around a lobby, sticky, dirty mass of chemical marvel that appeared to not be poop; a realization for which I was grateful after previous incidents of the morning (see: above).

What is is?
I said, examining to also make sure it wasn’t the internal organs of a recently deceased arthropod.

I don’t know,
he said.
It’s just really satisfying.
I call it “the satisfying stuff.” See?

It looks like that sticky slimy slime stuff from an old birthday party of something,
I said.

Yeah,
he said,
lovingly rolling it around.
It’s so satisfying to feel and hold and roll and touch. Maybe I’ll make some more of it today. Would you like some?

What would you call it? I asked.

The satisfying stuff.
he said, minus hesitation.
And I’ll make a bag for it where the satisfying stuff will go.