So after the 12 requisite hours that my children, who had just returned from camp, can hate me, roll their eyes at me, cry with the sadness that finds them back in civilization with rules and people older than them, they slowly come back to me in a subtle dance I call “I know who butters my bun.”
My eldest was at dinner the second night, her bare feet under the table near my bare feet and she started to play footsies with me. Subconsciously. Slowly as she spoke and told her stories she began winding her legs around mine.
I don’t comment on this rapidly returning affection for fear I could make it disappear. I eat it up quietly. Deliciously.
Later that night she snuggles up to me on the couch, lying on me and pulling my arm around her.
The younger one grabs me around the waist from the back while I am washing dishes and gives me a squeeze.
They are back.