Here in Hillsboro we sleep in an apartment-like section of the house that is separated from the kitchen by two doors and a flight of four stairs. Dad-o usually works here, though due to the poor Internet signal, he will periodically wander through the better-connected part of the house on a "download break."
Except for one delightful morning when Noah knocked on the door to announce, "Jonathan and I have made eggs for you and they are ready," the other kids generally stay in the main part of the house. Joy, however, will periodically toddle up the steps, open the door, and question plaintively, "Dad-o?" Much to his delight, of course.
During the first two weeks, when Heather was either ill or recovering from childbirth, I was Joy's favorite person. She came to me when she needed something, and when she didn't; she clung to me when she was sad, she turned to me for everything she would normally have turned to Mom for. But for two weeks I had no name.
Thanks to this nasty flu-or-whatever-it-is, I've been spending a lot of time in bed in the apartment, and one day I was rewarded with the pitter-patter of feet on the stairs, the slowly-opening door, and a plaintive, "Damma? Damma?"
Now that Heather and Jon are more available, I'm no longer the favorite go-to adult. But I am still Damma!
