Her teeth are brushed, the Barbies have been put away and her feet are tucked beneath a flamingo-pink blanket. Mr. Man, with his achy knees and sore shoulders, sits at the edge of her bed and begins with a question. "How was your day?" he asks. (When we had the mouse drama, I heard him say, "So, I heard Stuart Little paid you a visit?")
And then he asks if she has anything she wants to talk about. Sometimes, she does. She'll tell him about a test she had at school or a silly conversation she had with a friend. He's always interested it seems, even though he may be exhausted from a 14 hour day of construction work.
She's a talker, this girl of ours, and even though she may go on and on about frilly things and girlie things, he gives her his attention. Sometimes, he'll give his opinion ("Well, that sounds like a pretty dress to me...") and when she needs it the most, he laughs at her jokes (even if they aren't funny at all), or he'll whisper comforting words of encouragement when she's not so sure of herself.
And then they pray. Together. Every night.
And always, every time, no matter what - this is the best part of my day.