Nine years ago one of my hockey buddies asked how my wife was doing. “Oh, she’s at the ‘Get this baby out of me stage.'”
Quoth one of the other guys, “(You’re wife) is pregnant again? At our age? Are you nuts?”
I started having children a little later in life than most guys. In fact, my wife gave me two awesome gifts for my 40th birthday.
One was a Wii. I’ve always been a computer gamer, and never wanted an X-Box or GameCube, because I didn’t want to have to relearn “w-a-s-d-spacebar” movement.
Those who know, know. Those who don’t? Don’t worry about it.
Anyway, the only game system I ever considered for myself was a Wii, and wifey remembered this, and got me one.
Oh, and she also gave me a healthy 8lb, 12oz baby boy.
For my 40th.
Turns out I love being a daddy. Best goddamned job/occupation/hobby/pastime in the world.
So we had another kid.
And then another.
Thus the conversation above.
No, I’m not crazy. Leastwise, I’m not crazy to have another kid. Every one of those boys is the pride and joy of my life, each in his own unique way.
Number three is my maniac. Always in motion, always coming up with another way to amuse, amaze and torment his mother and me.
I don’t think a day has gone by in nine years that that kid hasn’t given me a belly laugh.
In fact, yesterday he was off doing something else, and I was reporting on his day to wifey, and I busted out laughing.
Even when the kid isn’t there, he makes me laugh.
Even if nothing else helps me navigate the grey mist, that boy’s antics will.
