Today is the greatest

Lia: No. I came in early. I had fun. I don't think work has to be this eight hour sink hole right in the middle of your day.

M: You're funny.

Things to remember before giving birth:

I need to talk about the merits of cross-ventilation. Every father in the history of the world has expounded upon the advantages of cross-ventilation to his little children. They come and gather round his feet and learn how opening one window on one side of the house, and another on the opposite side creates a wondrous breeze that they can all ride to Never never land. Though, at the rate they were going, with the AC bills and all, they'd probably just have to settle for that crappy beach two towns over. Twice recently I've walked around the house and opened it up to beauty of cross-ventilation and I've felt a little bit older and a little bit wiser each time.

S: Are you using salicilyic acid?

M: Yes.

S: Do you want our baby to have two heads?

M: (Pauses). I guess we'd probably be famous then.

It's also imperative that I start to bald slightly and begin wearing large glasses. Why? Because that's what real dads look like. Do you think somebody is going to let me coach the soccer team all clean-shaven wearing some hip shirt? No. They are going to let the guy with the mustache and glasses coach the team because he clearly knows his shi-. Everything I ever learned about sports was taught to me by men with mustaches.

The glasses are also an important part of the get up because they kind of scare kids. They say, "Look in my eyes kid. Oh wait, you can't because I'm wearing these large creepy glasses that are reflecting the sunlight right back at you. What happens when I take these off? That's right, I look like some sort of alien inhabiting the body of what used to be a dad. Do you want me to take these off or are you going to do a good job hitting the ball off the tee? Are you crying? Are those tears? I knew you'd take after your mother. You don't see me crying when I have to take out the trash. I just do it. Now go hit that damn ball into outer space. I know you can do it buddy. Though, to be honest, I'd settle for a dribbler down the first base line. I think you could beat it out. You run like a gazelle my boy, a short impaired gazelle. I kid. I kid. See how it has a double meaning...

I guess the other key component is to start slightly balding. Slightly balding suggests to children that you have lived some life that those full head of hair bastards haven't. Look at all the great thinkers in history, Socrates=bald Shakespeare=bald. Benjamin Franklin=bald Thomas Jefferson=probably bald under that giant wig Isaac Newton=I've no idea but for the sake of the argument let's go with bald. Jesus=Not given enough time on earth to start balding. Mikhail Gorbachev=bald. I could go on all night, but I think my point has been made. Bald=smart=respect.

Fiction

“That man has no rhyme or reason,” his mother had muttered on the day he received the gun some months ago. A wind was pushing in from the Northwest, whipping the window with streaks of rain that maneuvered in wavering lines along the glass like ants headed off to some strange war. She watched as the boy ran his hands over the grooves in the walnut where a sight could be affixed. The tea kettle was humming, but she sat in rapt silence, still watching. The boy knew next to nothing about guns. Not many people in his town carried them, but he knew that the gift had been special, a thing shared between men.