When Harrison was not yet two, he started exhibiting some signs of separation anxiety when I would drop him off at daycare in the mornings. As any new parent (and some of the more experienced ones) will tell you, except for the obvious truly tragic events some parents have to endure, about the only thing harder than scraping your crying toddler off your leg and walking away, not to return for 8 to 10 hours, is restraining him as the nurse administers three shots in a row and takes a blood sample.
I knew he would be fine once I was out of sight; when I picked him up at the end of the day, he had absolutely no interest in going home, and he loved the ladies who worked at the center. But that didn't change his morning reticence.
The solution came when he successfully learned to say "I love you" in sign language. I would drop him off in his classroom, and then we would "shoot" each other with the "I love you" sign, as if we were Spiderman and Spiderman's equally afflicted mom, casting invisible webs. Each shot was accompanied by a holler of "GOTCHA!", which then escalated to "DOUBLE GOTCHA!" (requiring the use of both hands as "I love you" shooters). Finally one of us would concede defeat by clutching our hands to our chest, gasping "you got me - right in the heart!"
This non-pacifistic little ritual has remained with us over the years, and I like to think when Harrison hears me say "gotcha", he realizes how much more I mean than just a simple "love you".
I wonder, when the time comes for him to eulogize me, if "gotcha" will be our "see-ya-bye".
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