Warm Hands are Misleading

A few nights ago Melody was using the potty after bedtime, so all the big lights were out.

Responding to her call for assistance I could see well enough that I didn’t turn on any new lights.

Melody reached out and took my hand, feeling it like clay in the dark, trying to recognize it. Finally she asked, “Is this Daddy?”

“No, it’s Mama,” I told her. “Why did you think it was Daddy?”

“Your hands were warm…”

I could hear the confusion in her voice when she first asked the question.  It was so unusual even the familiar size and shape couldn’t overrule the temperature element.

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