The Measure of a Happy Dad

It is me and my two boys.  They are singing Motown tunes, loudly, and in the requisite falsetto.  And cursing.  Sometimes simultaneously.  And am I a Happy Dad?  You have to ask?

One is wearing a white dress shirt and necktie.  The other is wearing a t-shirt that reads, "DANG."

Dinner was a group effort.  Italian sausage, rice, and what one calls, "crudites."  I call them vegetables.  So when mom comes home from her work trip we can, with a straight face, say we prepared a well-rounded affair.  All is well in our little universe.

Each is absorbed, to an extent, with our personal electronic devices.  Are we communicating?  Sure.  There is constant sharing, joking.  I read aloud from a favorite blog about the arrivals of Spring.  "Man, can she write," I think.  One reads about the history of computers.  The other shares stories of work.  The phone rings.  Back to our personal cocoons, antenna ready for the phone conversation to end.

The call is from a favorite cousin.  The phone gets handed around.  I threaten to show up on his doorstep with a sleeping bag and a telescope.  "You don't need a sleeping bag," he says, puzzled.  "It was a metaphor," I say.  "Oh," he says, still puzzled.  To my own amusement, I am not sure what it means either.  It just sounded good at the time.  That is how most of my stuff comes out.

We talk about wicked tree-houses.  These new kind that look like tents.  Then I show off my big legs.  "Can you get your hands around one of these?"  No way!

One is showing off a computer program called "Life."  He has no idea what it does.  Wikipedia to the rescue.  "Cellular automaton," is the answer.  I still have no idea.  But am I happy?  You bet.

Bugs are banging into the screens.  I am reminded of my upcoming trip to Colorado to fish the Mother's Day Hatch on the Arkansas.  My stomach flutters in anticipation.  I hate flying, but once in the stream, I will be fine.  It's the same before a group ride.  I am nervous.  It can be dangerous - flying along at 30mph, wearing shorts and a wisp of a jersey, bumping elbows with the rider next to me in the pace-line. But once moving, I am cool as a cucumber.  In my element.  Like now.

Someone complains about his tooth.  "Do we have an appointment to visit the dentist soon?" Someone complains about having to shave everyday.  The kitchen duty calls, the bed calls.  The party is over.  Am I happy?  You have to ask?