On Coloring

I'll tell you what: Having kids is tough.

Well, technically, Tiffany and I don't have kids (I know I've been away from the blog a long time, but still, three weeks would be a pretty aggressive gestation period for a human being). But we are living with two of them now--and their parents--until we find a place of our own in New York.

When I say tough, I mean that having children around is so much fun I don't have time to do any of the things I should be doing when I'm not at work--like writing this blog, going for a run, or finding an apartment where we wouldn't have kids to play with anymore.

I came upstairs in my running clothes the other day, and Peter, our friends' 2-year-old, was lying on the floor on his stomach in the kitchen, coloring.

"Come on, Rebo," he said, using the nickname his mom and a few other soccer teammates gave me in college. "Color."

He had just learned to call someone to him by waving his hand toward himself, and he scooped his entire arm through the air to indicate that I should come closer.

"Maybe later," I said. "I'm going for a run real quick."

Peter stared at me.

I stared at Peter.

And then, in that amazing ability children have, he forgave me for the words I had just uttered, and scooped his arm through the air again as if I hadn't spoken at all.

"No," he said, matter-of-factly. "Color."

He patted the floor next to him and held up a purple crayon.

I took it.