Every night when I turn onto my street and see my house, I imagine it is like a giant Cracker Jack box: I'm gonna get a surprise, I just don't know what kind it'll be. Will it be a good one like a pack of the washable tattoos, or one of those crappy plastic magnifying glasses?
My kids will either be playing and watching tv, or I could open the door into Dante's Inferno: it's really sort of a crapshoot. I can usually tell what kind of day everyone has had by the look Angie gives me when she sees me: if she looks like like that guy did right before he turned into the Incredible Hulk, that's pretty much my signal to go into Lee Ermey in "Full Metal Jacket" mode.
I love the little monsters though, with everything I've got. I told Angie once that there was no way I could love anyone or anything more than I loved her: then they come along and I realized I really AM an idiot. The love a Dad feels for his kids is indescribable: just never knew God could make your heart big enough to love that way.
Yeah, when they are yelling at each other at Mach 10 at the dinner table, or Rakes has dropped trou and is chasing Ciera around the house, giggling like a mental patient while she screams at the top of her lungs, it's frustrating. When Baby Trot is screaming because he's hungry, or tired, of just for the heck of it, I want to stick my head in the oven for awhile. And yes, I'll admit going into the bathroom, turning on the fan, and sitting in the dark for 5 or 10 minutes to calm down because if I don't, I may just go medevil on one of them. At the end of the day I thank the Good Lord for everyone of them.
I've already told Ang: when I die, I want this on my tombstone and nothing else:
He was a Dad. A Husband. A Red Sox fan.
If I can leave this earth with those 3 things being true, I'll die a happy man.