Kim gets the kids ready for bed most nights. That involves rounding them up to brush teeth and get drinks and retrieve gum or candy they have stashed in their little pockets. If we’re lucky, they climb into bed with a book and a flashlight.

And maybe a swig of Benadryl when The Office is on.

But usually we aren’t that lucky which is where I come in. Phase 2 of bed tucking in involves making sure each child is in her or her own bed and and there are no hands down butt cracks. Once they’ve settled down I’ll tell them a story of varying degrees of scariness.

But tonight the kids had a hundred questions about travel. They measure travel by how many nights they would sleep on the plane.

How many nights would we sleep on the plane to grandma’s house?
How many nights would we sleep on the plane to Disneyworld?
How many nights would we sleep on the plane to Australia?

This lead to the following discussion:

Lincoln: Is heaven above the sky?

Me: Yes, I guess so.

Lincoln: How many nights would we sleep on the plane to get to heaven?

Luca: You have to take a rocket, Lincoln, because rockets go straight up.

Me: That’s right, it takes a rocket to get into space.

Lincoln: I couldn’t sleep on a rocket so let’s just go to grandma’s.

I work with a bunch of very cool people. They travel around the world and return with all sorts of goodies which they graciously share with me. Last week I returned to my office to find two bars of my favorite chocolate. The kindness must have been contagious because I brought one of the bars home to share with Kim and the kids.

I share most things but I’m sure you’d understand my past lack of generosity if you could taste one square of this dreamy chocolate.

That same day someone also left this John McCain action figure on my desk. Nobody has come forward so I’m not sure whom to thank. But if you happen to be reading this I want you to know how much fun I’ve had bending his arms back and forth. If you look closely you’ll see the old Maverick’s nose is suffering from rug burn. If someone forced him to push a penny down the hall with his nose, I didn’t see a thing.

Although I’ve worn glasses for many years I’ve seldom liked them enough to wear outside the house much. Most of the time I wear contacts.

But this week I bought these black Raybans, and I like them so much I just might wear them to work tomorrow.

The air is crisp, the leaves are falling and the kids are trying to bribe dad into raking a huge pile of leaves together so they can help pick them up.

They are Lucy holding the football and I’m Charlie Brown wondering if this is the year I’ll finally kick it.

Just as Lucy yanks the football away at the last minute, my kids will help until the pile is big enough to swallow them up upon entry.

The help stops. The leaves fly. Dad blows leaves into neighbors yard.

Maybe I’m wiser this year.

Then again, that smile on Anna Lynn looks so very trustworthy, doesn’t it?

One summer afternoon I stood at home plate taking cuts with my aluminum Easton while my father tossed batting practice. He’d mix in a few curve balls among the fast balls. After I swung well ahead of one curve ball he told me to “pickup the rotation of the ball”.

The rotation of the ball? I had no idea what he was talking about and I told him. That was the first sign that my vision needed correcting.

It wasn’t long before I was back at the plate swinging away while sporting new contact lenses. I finally understood what my father meant when he told me to pickup the rotation. I could actually see the stitching on the ball as it came towards me. Over time, I learned to patiently wait on the curve and drive it into right field. 

It’s been a long time since someone has tossed a curveball my way, but I still make an annual trip to the eye doctor to be fitted for new lenses and glasses. This week I visited a new doctor who gave me the standard exam which included holding a black soup spoon over my left eye, having my eyelids flipped over over head, and putting my chin in a torture contraption only to have an unexpected burst of air blasted into my eye.

I don’t have a problem with any of that. But I do have a problem with something, and it’s not limited to just this eye doctor. Every eye doctor I’ve been to has the FREAKISHLY HUGE EYEBALL poster hanging on the wall. What is the point of this?

That big eye gives me the creeps.

The last thing I need while trying my best to read a line of microscopic letters is the evil glare of Mike Wazowski.

When I visit the dentist, I don’t have to look at a gigantic teeth and gums. I won’t take this any further, but you can imagine the uneasiness if all doctors decided to hang their body part specialty off the wall in poster size form.

I don’t need to see a close up of my cornea or my iris or, heaven forbid, all those blood vessels partying it up in the back of my eye.

It would make a good cheat sheet in case the doctor forgets where the sclera is located.

Or maybe there’s a obscure law that requires it to be hung on the wall in full patient view in the same manner businesses must hang the Minimum Wage laws in a conspicuous location.

Either way, I wish it would stop staring at me.

-Link to Doctor My Eyes from Jackson Browne