IN WHICH LOGAN NEARLY GETS HIS DIAPERED BUTT HANDED TO HIM
As I write this, I’m sitting in my son’s room as he snores softly in his crib. He’s got this CD of famous folk singers doing old children’s tunes (best of the lot: Willie Nelson’s “I’m My Own Grandpa,” a hysterical redneck-family-album ditty–see, the singer marries this widow, then the singer’s dad marries the widow’s daughter, then the daughter has a kid, so the singer is indeed his own grandfather.) (It helps if you draw it out.)
But that’s not what I’m writing about tonight. Tonight I just want to raise a glass to my kids, Logan and Riley, and wish them a life full of happiness and good stories. They’re amazing little things, both of them, and I know I’m going to turn around and find myself walking Riley down the aisle or shielding Logan’s face from tv cameras.
As I get more time, I’ll tell more stories about the young’uns (but no “junior did the cutest thing today!” nonsense, promise). But here’s a good one. A couple weeks ago, Logan and I were headed into the grocery store. Right in front of us, an extra from American Choppers–bald head, goatee, black shirt, pipes the size of tree trunks–was walking in. Logan’s a fan of the kids’ show Thomas the Tank Engine, and his favorite train is named “Percy.” Well, Logan loves to yell Percy’s name, but he can’t really SAY “Percy”; it comes out “Puh-sy.” So he’s bellowing “Puh-sy! Puh-sy!” right to the back of this linebacker’s head. The guy starts to turns around and gives us The People’s Eyebrow. Me, I just walked away and left Logan to fend for himself. I mean, this dude was BIG. You’d’a done the same thing.
So, cheers, kids. Your dad will always be there for you. Except when a steroidal monster’s looking to kick some ass. Then you’re on your own.