Whoever said that men should be distant and aloof and never show affection for their children never saw these cheeks:
Whenever I hold TwoBert, and he sits in the crook of my arm and throws his little arm over my shoulder, his cheeks are right there, at lip level. What am I supposed to do, ignore them? Impossible. His cheek-allure is powerful enough to qualify as a Fourth Law of Motion.
A few months ago, TwoBert began taking these kisses for granted. At first he just leaned in, cheek first. But now, if the kiss does not arrive soon enough for his liking, he gets impatient and head-butts me in the mouth. He now has the idea that the best way to express good will toward your fellow man is to bust his lip open.
This is what I call a "Parent Hackfire," when you employ a strategy with the best intentions and end up with bloody gums.
To wit: TwoBert's favorite thing to eat is still Whatever I'm Eating. And last week, during the Hot Hot Heat, he demanded a sip of my Newcastle Brown. The obvious move was to let the boy 1) take a pull, 2) recoil in bitterness, and 3) toddle off to harrass someone else. Except that he liked it. A lot. So much in fact that whenever I crack one he bee-lines straight to me and starts whining and groping in that annoying, 15-month-old, hey-I'm-a-person-not-a-larva sort of way.
I am a "kind drunk," in that whenever I'm loaded I start telling people how much they mean to me. So I don't think it's a good idea to let the boy drink all the beer he wants, because it's likely he'll lavish so much affection on everyone he sees that no one will leave the room with intact bridgework.
So let's recap: Thanks largely to my parenting influence, my toddler son has developed passions for kicking, head-butting, and English ale. I suppose he can look forward to a promising career on the terraces of the English Premier League.