Greeted at the door

I have this vivid memory from when I was about 20. I was just getting over a failed engagement (I probably dodged a bullet on that one) and hanging out with some friends, talking about the future, relationships, etc.

My friend, who we’ll call Brenda, said, “You seem like the kind of guy who wants to walk in the door, newspaper tucked under your arm, and on setting down your briefcase, gets attacked by the kids at the door. After you thoroughly rile them up, you get attacked by your loving wife.”

She meant it as an insult, and I always found that strange. Careers, experiences, travel, sowing your oats (whatever that is) were what mattered to her.

Like at 20, I was supposed to want a life somehow “better” than a family to love, provide for, and defend with vigor.

About six years later, I stood in the kid’s bedroom doorway (they shared a room then) watching them sleep, tears in my eyes, when my wife came over and put her arms around me. I whispered to her, “I just want to burn this moment into my mind.”

Thirty years after that conversation and twenty-nine years with the woman of my dreams, the only thing I want for my grown kids is a family to love, provide for, and defend with vigor.