Butterfly Kisses...

I think I was about 10. Maybe I was a little older. Maybe I was a little younger. But the margin for error on this one can't be more than a year. Definately right at the 4th or 5th grade mark.

First I noticed the other boys didn't do it. It had seemed so natural. Just the way the world was. But suddenly I realized this was something that, if left unattended, could cause me great shame in the near future.

The time was now. I knew I had to act, but finding the courage to do so meant hurting someone I loved. I remember trying to find an excuse that wouldn't be so obvious and painful. I thought about it until I came up with the perfect excuse.

The moustache.

OF COURSE! His moustache. That makes the perfect sense.

"Dad." I asked.

"Yes son?" He said.

"Do you think it'd be alright if maybe I stopped kissing you?" I continued, "I mean, not because I don't want to, but because your moustache just kinda rubs my face and it hurts. You think we could just, I don't know, hug from here on out?"

"Sure"

And thus ended an era in my life. I began to grow up.

I dropped my buddy off at the airport this afternoon and on my way back, I decided to grab some lunch. I was hoping to have all my work done so I could go home and eat, but I knew I had at least a couple more hours left of work to go, so I decided to stop at my favorite Chinease...err...Asian buffet.

I was enjoying chicken on a stick when I noticed some people walking in. It was some grandparents with their daughter, who, in turn, also had her daughter (the granddaughter) in tow. It soon became apparent that they were meeting the husband here, because the moment the little girl saw her dad, she let out a huge, "DADDY!!!" and ran to him.

He swallowed her up in a giant bear hug and gave her a big kiss.

I had to fight tears.

Wednesday night, we asked the ultrasound operator not to tell us right away the sex of our child. Instead, we had her type it off in the corner of the picture and then put the picture in an envelope. Afterwards, we went to dinner and opened up the surprise together.

I'd like to say that I was impartial. That I screamed and cried and gave the girl with the green eyes the biggest of big hugs. That I was mature enough to not show my disappointment in my sperm (by the way, I'm pretty sure that's the only time in my life I will ever write that sentence).

But I'm an immature little kid. My humor is stuck in the sixth grade, and sometimes I think my emotional maturity is too.

"I'm sorry honey," my wife consoles me with.

"About what? I'm super excited." I lie.

"Yeah right. I know how much you wanted a boy," she cross examines me with.

And she was right. I wanted a boy soooooooooo bad. I even had the name picked out. Jaxon Alexander Keck. It means "Jake's son, the defender of mankind." Seriously, who wouldn't want to be named the defender of mankind?

It wasn't to be. And I pouted. I just couldn't get over how badly I had wanted a boy. And now, Jaxon may never exist.

My wife says I am too emotional. I say she isn't emotional enough. But I would agree with her that I demontrate my emotions at a much higher rate than her. That may not be a very manly thing to admit, but the truth's the truth. I cry at movies more than her. I cry at weddings more than her. I cry hug more people than her. It's just the way I'm wired.

So when I saw that little girl, run into her daddy's arms, I fought tears. Why? Because I suddenly realized the fullness of the gift God is giving me.

If I were to have a son, someday, in the not so distant future, I would be dropping him off for school and we'd have a conversation that would go like this:

"Uh, dad?"

"Yes Jaxon?"

"Do you think, maybe, instead of giving me a kiss, we could just, you know, high five or something? Your mustache just kind of rubs my face."

"I don't have a mustache Jaxon."

"So high fiving works?"

And that will be it.

With my daughter, the kissing will never stop.