Go ahead. Splash in the puddles. Remind me of the joy that can come with it.

            Grace the air with your laughter. Show me how to embrace the mundane and make it something memorable.

            This surreal, sensory-overloaded world we live in occasionally stops. Every now and then it screeches to a halt and I’m standing there watching in a little bit ofwonder.

            If only I could have this perspective more often.

            Parenting is for the patient, and I am absolutely and positively not.

            If only the creativity that comes so easily could be so evident in handling the pink meltdowns of every day. Outnumbered, outguessed, and so outmanned in every single way, my wife and I find ourselves daily at the end of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. The only difference is that we’re too tired to make that one last break with guns blazing.

            Thank God the rest of our lives are stable. Oh, wait a minute—I’m a writer.

            But wait is what you three tell me.

            Look, Daddy, you say about the simple things I overlook.

            Over here, Daddy, you shout about the ordinary places I never notice.

            Stand still, Daddy, you scream as I have to wait for you to count my age while the rain falls over my head.

            It’s never felt better.

            Relief is gentle. This respite, so generous. I take a snapshot and wish I could keep this sort of attitude 24-7. God in His gentle and generous mercy has given us these three characters worthy of three Pixar films. Only more beautiful and complicated and original than any genius artist could ever create.

            The wonders of parenthood. So rich for a pauper to begin to try to have a budget for.

            Every day I begin and end feeling unworthy. Yet every day, I begin and end feeling loved.

            The afternoon rain shower sometimes breaks because of a tear in the grey sky. I suddenly see these dazzling bursts of sunlight cutting through, splashing my world with a lot more brightness than I deserve.

            The laughter is an echo of another me. The trio is a three-pronged attack on my sanity and my self-control. Yet this youthful joy mirroring some forgotten part of me is as welcomed as the rain on a dry, scorched lawn.

            I wish I could stand in the rain for forty-four seconds more often. Listening to the countdown not out of fear but out of pure fun. Then running toward shelter not because I have to but because of the response it will bring from those who love me and laugh at me the most.
          You crazy three are my shelter.