In anticipation, the boys run laps back and forth in the hallway as the summer sun spills through open windows, casting 4 o'clock shadows the floor.
My almost four year old peers out the door, watching for the white station wagon to slowly enter into our cul-du-sac, squints his eyes in attempts to discern if his car might be closely behind.
"Nope, E.," he says to his brother. "That's not it. It's black. Daddy's car is white."
He speeds through that same conversation, changing only the color, several times before asking me if it's close.
"Is it daddy time yet?"
Almost, I assure them, two boys bouncing through the living room, excitement brimming as each minute draws nearer.
There is white in the distance and then
finally, it's parking in our driveway.
He exits the car, dressed in shirt and tie, sporting aviator shades and a wide smile.
Two small boys bound to the door, overcome with joy and flashmob the king of our castle.
He greets them with hugs, greets me with a kiss.
And my heart basks in gratitude that the father they adore, the man for whom they wait, for whom we all wait more than lives up to all the hype.