Dear Henry (and Kelsey),
I'd like to apologize in advance for being an absentee father today, with the Ohio State/Michigan and Cincinnati/West Virginia games taking me away from my regular duties as your loving father.
Someday, when it interests you more than flipping through
Moo Moo Brown Cow for the four thousandth time, we'll watch this kind of thing together. Down the road, I will let you take a swig of my beer, which you will hopefully think is disgusting enough that I won't have to worry about underage drinking for the next ten years.
Which reminds me of a good story. Periodically, when we were (older) children, we'd ask our father to try his beer. 9 times out of 10 he'd say no (like a good parent would), then that one time he'd say "sure, ok, go for it". It would hit our lips, and we'd instantly convulse because it was so foul and disgusting. Except for my sister, who would immediately ask for more. Which was really scary for my parents, I'm sure.
Note: I know you're not
supposed to give beer to children, even a little bit, but good lord, who doesn't remember the first time they tasted their dad's beer?
And to you Kelsey, I'd like to add that when Henry starts watching sports with me, that will easily buy you 48 precious hours a weekend of time to yourself. Remember what that was like? I know you do.
