I Miss All Of You Too

There's a hell of a lot of corn in this country. Miles and miles of it in fact, broken up only by the occasional soybean field. It's lovely in its own way, but I'm tired of driving through it.

At least I was until I got a text message from my oldest in the middle of lunch.

"God hates me," it read.

That's my boy. A pessimist just like dear old dad.

"Why do you say that?" I sent back.

"My brother was born," came the reply.

When I talked to my Lovely Bride tonight I could tell it had been a long day, a point driven home by the screams I heard from my kids in the background. The middle son had been locked out of the basement by his brothers, apparently in revenge for his being born.

"Would you like me to kill them when I get home?" I offer.

She pauses to consider. "Probably not. Let's see how it goes tomorrow."

The oldest gets on the phone. His first words, "Your middle kid's a jerk."

"No he's not. Knock it off."

"See, you love him better." He throws the phone at the youngest who picks it up and launches into some incomprehensible story about a basketball game, told in the dialect of the Whitest Gangsta in America. I try to pay attention for a minute and then realize I have no idea what he's going on about. I don't think he knows either. The whole thing 's just an attempt to annoy me. Eventually it does.

"Let me talk to your other brother." I'm told he's left the house. He's probably out in the yard, looking for sticks he can sharpen into weapons. My wife gets back on the phone instead.

"How was your day?" she asks.

Not so bad after all.