Four-year-old Isabella held me hostage last night. After singing her a lullaby and gently scratching her back, I tried to slip out of her bed. “Daddy,” she whispered, “I want to snuggle.”
Over the next few hours, I tried to make my escape many times, only to be summoned back with that faint whisper: I want to snuggle.
Finally, at 3:00 a.m. I made a break for it. Silently slipping out of her bed, I tip-toed to my room.
At daybreak, I realized I was clinging to the last inches of the edge of the bed. There was a cold foot on my leg, a knee in my kidney, an elbow jammed in my spine, and the warm, pulsing, rhythmic breath of the four-year-old captor on my neck.
“Hey, how did you get there?” I asked.
“I wasn’t finished snuggling,” she said as she drifted back to sleep.
Tonight, our game continues.