"C'mere, give Daddy a kiss!" I'd tell Jesse, giving him only a short moment's notice of the impending torment that would soon befall him.
Then I'd swoop down on the boy and pick him up, usually against his will, and plant a big wet kiss square on his lips. He'd thrash about like a monkey on barbecue grill. (Figuratively speaking of course, not that I've ever tried to barbecue live monkeys.) He'd squeal. He'd toss his head about. And then I'd do it some more. Heh.
Last week, however, was different.
"Daddy wants a kiss," I tell the boy. But instead of trying to run for his life, he turns to me, puckers up and kisses me on the lips gingerly. It took me by surprise. So much so, I damn near shed a tear.
Some days back as he was snuggling in Mommy's arms, the little rascal turns to Mae, unprovoked, and kisses her tenderly on the lips. She squeals in delight at his little display of affection. And the boy milks it for all its got - lapping up every bit of love Mae showers upon him in response.
Ahhh... The boy has finally learnt to kiss. More importantly, he's also begun to understand the effect that it brings.
That's my boy.