When you come to our house Comments
Mar5
There’s no guarantee that somebody won’t be in a foul mood, that clean glass might have a four-day-old speck of gravy or the dog will make her bed in your suitcase.
There’s no guarantee that somebody won’t be in a foul mood, that clean glass might have a four-day-old speck of gravy or the dog will make her bed in your suitcase.
By themselves, the small steps don’t seem to matter. You wonder if you will ever get where you are going.
You realize they talk about you, dads. And not always in a good way.
My youngest son swore the other day.
He didn’t say the big one, thank goodness, the one that makes mom go into a spasm and reach for the Dial soap. (For the record, Barb does not allow this form of punishment here. She prefers something much more lethal: Celine Dion songs played backwards.)
On that day, I [...]
I look up and see them talking on the couch.
My 12-year-old son on one side and Andrew on the other.
When I die, the funeral should not be long. Anything over 45 minutes is too long. I don’t want anybody nodding off and hitting the pew in front of them. Plenty of that happens in church already.
The middle daughter is above all this, operating her iTouch somewhere else in the house. Not many words are spoken because we’re all staring at some screen, lost inside the virtual world.
It’s easy for me to laugh at myself. It can be almost as easy to laugh at my religion when you consider:
This is about the time I didn’t turn on the radio.
Kept the iTouch off in the car.
Didn’t play the drums on the steering wheel or even beat box for fun.
