It’s 7:29 in the evening. I just snuggled with my 3-year-old son, which means I told him a story (about San Francisco and ants), sang him a song (Pearl Jam’s Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In a Small Town) and hugged really, really tight.
Now I’m in the room of my 6-year-old daughter. My wife Catherine is reading her The Bake Shop Ghost. My wife is in pants and a green sweater. My daughter, 10 minutes post-bath, is in her clouds pajamas.
The house is really quiet. Norma the dog is lying on the carpet, eyes closed. The dishwasher is humming softly in the kitchen.
I’ve been thinking much today about the person who ripped my profession as meaningless and unimportant. As I initially wrote this morning, he might be right. But, whatever the case, here I am. Great wife, great kids.