Bread and Kisses
On my way across Liverpool Street Station. Making my way through the post-work crowds to the Tube Station.
Just before the stairs down, there’s a man standing. To his left, an empty pushchair. To his right, a little boy - maybe seven or eight years old. The father’s left arm is curled around a smaller boy - maybe four years old - who is held in the classic one-armed pose, pressed against the man’s rib-cage and hip.
The iPod is on, so I can’t hear, but the seven year old, what looks like a half-eaten, home-made sandwich in his hand, is chatting animatedly to the man. The four-year-old, meanwhile, is giggling joyously, his mirth making his head full of bubbly yellow curls bounce around. The father brushes his lips absently against the toddler’s forehead.
As I pass, I glance at the father. His hair’s a mess, his five-o-clock shadow more a seven-thirty. There are dark bags under his eyes, and the eyes themselves have a sort of sadness in them.
I’m projecting - it’s what I always do. The guy’s probably a Lotto millionaire who likes trains, hates shaving, and hasn’t a care in the world.
But, for a moment, I’m struck by the difference between parent and children. The one seemingly weighed down by the stresses of life, the responsibilities we think are ours to carry. The others, oblivious to those, so often, pointless worries, joyously happy at the adventure of being in the station at rush hour, and at getting to spend time with their daddy.
So often, I’m the dad: Stressing over the bad things that might happen, obsessing over what I don’t have, worrying about getting everything - blog posts, holiday pictures, video uploads and on and on - done.
I need to be the kids more often. They have bread and kisses, and they couldn’t be happier with their lot.
Bread and kisses. What more is worth wanting?