Are You Happy?

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

This is the newest question in our house. Whenever I tell my son not to do something, like, say not to throw his food. He’ll stop mid-throw, sort of tilt his head at me, and then,

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

“I am, bud. And well played by the way.”

Then, fifty percent of the time at least, bread takes flight.

But I am happy. Happy that he’s happy. Mostly, I mean there's always the occassional crushing blow for an almost three-year-old: Bedtimes, bath time, words that end with time and don't begin with play. Maybe when he can’t have a cookie, but overall, yes, he’s happy. So I’m happy.

His newest activity is riding a bike around the house. And by around I don’t mean literally, but more through the house. Down the hallway, into the kitchen, peddling away down the living room and making a hairpin turn back around again. And the imagination this kid has, the other day he fell, and got all sorts of upset because he dropped the imaginary cookies he was bringing to me.

Sometimes it can be hard to keep track of what's going on. I mean, it can be alligators roaming the living room, a lion down the hallway. The bike mysteriously “smokes” and has to be repaired. Oh, and anything can become a lawn mower.

The other day all of this was happening, nearly simultaneously, when I looked at my wife.

Can you believe this? We have a three year old.

Almost three at least, and man the house is jumping, with the alligators and all. My wife and I were thinking about calling an exterminator, but our son spotted us talking, like adults, and came to a skidding halt on the bike.

“Are you happy Mommy? Are you happy Daddy?”

“Yes son, we’re happy.”

Kitchen Philosophy...

The other night while making dinner....helping to make dinner....handing my wife the cheese from the refrigerator, we listened to the playful tunes on the Baby Einstein station on Pandora while my wife sang along.  I held my son in my arms as he watched with wonderment as the ceiling fan worked its magic. Outside the azaleas were bursting with bright pink flowers after a springtime rain.  Mason, our hyper husky chased a bumble bee like an idiot.  Everyone was happy.  I couldn’t help but to think just how drastically different my life is now compared to what it used to be.

It wasn’t so long ago that a good friend and I found ourselves in the kitchen, taking shots of frosted bourbon we had discovered in the freezer.  With each shot we became drunken philosophers, discussing anything from world politics to American literature.  It was near dawn when we realized neither of us knew what we were talking about or more importantly, whose kitchen we were in.

Those were some crazy days.  I have a picture in a box somewhere (my wife didn't like it on the mantle) that encapsulates my twenties.  In it, a group of us are gathered in the courtyard of an old apartment complex drinking beer.  The characters:  An elderly woman, complete with a walker, drinking a Miller Highlife.  A strange lady with a really short skirt who had just happened to walk by moments before the picture. A random guy with a football...why not?  And of course there’s us, arm in arm, both with carefree smiles on our faces.  

My current lifestyle is much easier on the liver.  I’m waking up around 6am and changing a diaper while trying to coax a smile out of the little guy. I'm fluent in baby talk, taking piggies to the market and all sorts of other places.  I'm testing the temperature of breast milk on my wrist and can even pour it into a bottle with one hand, all things that were unimaginable to me even a couple of years ago.  And I would never go back. There are far worse ways to spend one’s time.  Perhaps it’s age, perhaps it's having a family, but these days I like to know whose kitchen I’m in.  Life is much simpler that way.

Recently, that same friend—whose son is almost three and whose wife is expecting, sent me a text asking if I would like to get together and catch up over a beer.  In the text he mentioned that he could meet me any time after 8pm.  I looked at the phone as though I were holding a human heart. After 8pm?  Is he crazy?  I was laughing off this late night invitation when, sure enough the phone buzzed again.

 I meant until 8pm.   

Oh, okay. 

Our lives have changed.  Our bar meetings are months apart and usually consist of a couple of beers and a glance at the clock.  We’re gone long before happy hour ends and at home before the band has set up their equipment.  I leave the bourbon to the kids who don't know any better and the old timers who can handle it. I have no time for kitchen philosophy…