“Yes. Yes, I am.”
So goes a frequent exchange between a joyful Billy and me. He doesn’t want me to reply in any other way, and he doesn’t want me to stop being goofy. Karen often wants me to improvise songs about broccoli from Tennessee or to tell her stories about bacon.
As if to prove the point, she just walked into the office, hunched over, knees slapping her hands, saying, “Daddy! Help me! My hands keep high-fiving my legs!” Continue reading