Build me bookshelves. Be afraid of spiders and depend on me to defend you from the vicious beasts. Never clean your car. Leave post-it notes on my forehead in the morning when you leave for work saying things like “I really wish you’d taken a shower last night, your hair smelled funny.”
Refuse to carry my purse but order a soy mocha latte with extra foam and chocolate shavings on top. Wake me up by tickling, then ignore my screams of terror and pain and tickle harder until I kick you in the gut out of pure horror. Play the piano, but only Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Mary Had a Little Lamb.
Color pictures of unicorns in the waiting room of my pediatrician, then make fun of me for still going to one afterwards. Kiss me on the forehead, nose, chin, cheek, neck, shoulder, stomach…anywhere except my lips. Read the Bible, the same Bible they handed out to everyone in 1st grade Sunday School. Push my hair out of my eyes and kiss my ears and hold my hand in the car and nuzzle my neck and fall asleep on my chest.
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