“Let’s Play Roughhouse!”

It’s a super simple request that Nolan has started making with regularity. He calls it different things: roughhouse, tackle, football, slam game (that one was new this weekend) but it’s always the same. He tackles me, I tackle him, he laughs (and laughs) and we start over again.

It’s a super simple request that is anything but simple.

I played the same scenario in my head from the moment we found out that Tera was pregnant with our second child. We’d play roughhouse. Our second child would distract me and draw my attention and when I wasn’t expecting it, Nolan would come flying in off the couch to take me down. We’d be piled up in a mass of bodies, laughing like crazy and doing it all over again.

And right now, Simon would be a little more than a year-and-a-half old. He’d be able to be the distraction and help Nolan take me down. He’d be mobile and strong enough to play roughhouse.

But he’s not.

My games of roughhouse with Nolan are 1-on-1. They are still physical, we both need several water-breaks. We both laugh the entire time we are playing.

And there is one laugh missing. What should be, and never will be, is the pile we’d all end up in together, me and my boys. There’s a whole in our game that I feel every time we play. Every time Nolan asks to play roughhouse, my heart breaks a little bit. But I’ll never tell him no. I’ll always keep playing tackle (even when an errant knee means a bloody mouth for daddy) because as much as it hurts me to not have Simon playing with us, Nolan needs that rough and tumble daddy time.

I know he misses having his little brother playing, too. He told us tonight that he misses Simon every day. He doesn’t get to play tackle with Simon…a game that always includes a fair amount of cuddles. This is how he gets to cuddle with his brother. The partner in crime that he’ll never get to plot a strategy with to take down their dad.

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