Rumi is kind of a boy version of my wife, and yet, he's so much like me. Is he though? He's crying a lot. In that case, he is really like me. But when we think about little kids, they all cry a lot. Why is this one so special?
Maybe because I was there the first time he saw the world—when he was crying all night, when we were alone, and even when I wasn’t there, I could hear him every time. Even the first time he said "Papa," I was there to hug him. That was my proudest moment.
His crying is not a bad thing. It's a way for a little human to say something. At first, it was a way to say that he was cold or hungry. Nowadays, his crying speaks a little differently—it’s to ask for just a little attention.
I’ll hug him. I’ll hug him until his head sinks into my shoulder. And right after he’s done, I ask him what happened. It's the same as usual—something petty, like his sister screamed at him. I know sometimes his sister does that, but most of the time, it's because of him.
Do I need to tell him that? Maybe. But for now, I think it’s better just to sit together. Ask about the times when they were happy together—like the day we went to the public swimming pool, cheering for his sister so she could gather a little bravery for her swimming lesson.
Sometimes, that moment is all we need. A moment when we are together. It does make us smile.
“Come to your sister, child,” I tell him. He’s not crying anymore. He kisses me and says, “Yes, Papa.”