Daddy’s Arms
“Children,” she said, her eyes beaming as if she were about to announce that the carpet squares on which they sat were made of candy, “Do you have anything at your house that is just your size? Anything that fits you just right?”
Hands darted in the air and waved gleefully to and fro. Kids shouted out answers one after another.
“My new pink flip flops are just my size!”
“My bunk bed fits me just right,”
“My pajamas used to be just my size, but Mom says I’m growing too fast.”
“My tricycle is just right for me, but not for my big brother ‘cuz he broke my training wheels!”
The preschool teacher listened, nodded, and smiled as every child contributed to the discussion. Finally, when the room grew quiet, Lizzy raised her hand.
“What fits you just right, Lizzy?” her teacher asked.
The room erupted in response. Some kids laughed, some argued Lizzy’s logic and others contributed their own Daddy stories as their four-year-old minds headed down tangent lane. But Miss Teresa remained silent. As the children chattered, the well-seasoned preschool teacher reached for a tissue. She needed to wipe the tears that were trickling down her cheek before her students asked why she was crying.
Father’s Day may have come and gone, but I am still marveling at the ever–changing size of my husband’s arms. Believe it or not, they are the perfect fit for each one of our five children. Whether he’s snuggling with our one-year-old or wrestling our eleven-year-old into a giant bear hug, Rob’s arms are just the right size for the child at hand. . . 
