Happily Tropically Depressed

Soft but steady rain sprinkles outside into the Palm Trees, Hibiscus and the Confederate Jasmine that winds down the railing of the Beloved Back Deck.

Listening through the open windows and sliding glass doors, sitting at the kitchen table wearing black running shorts, I'm happily Tropically Depressed.

"Why are the windows open?" Maddie, our brilliant but clueless 15 year old says stumbling up the spiral staircase.

"Because it makes me happy," I smile.

She rolls her eyes, opens the Fridge and spills waffles over the kitchen floor.

I laugh which is the quickest way to piss off a brilliant but clueless 15 year old but she giggles too before pretending like she's upset again.

The rain easies ... birds burst into solos ... the choir of cicada explode into Hymns of Praise ... and the Frogs surrounding the Marsh viciously attack the bass notes.

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young round out the music reuniting just for Maddie and me online.

She has the funniest ways of making frozen waffles ... put them in the toaster for a minute ... microwave them for 35 seconds ... nuke the syrup as she smothers them in butter ... pour it on top ... and eat far to fast to enjoy the taste.

"No Ketchup?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes at me again.

"Do you think" she begins, sitting at the dining room table, wearing a tee shirt and glasses, hair askew from her pillow ... and she asks me.

About school ... the boyfriend ... her sisters ... lunch ... the weekend ... how soon we can move to a big house in the Caribbean ... will I take her shopping ... can we turn on the air conditioning?

I catch a lot of shit from people because I'm 60 ... already have three children of "my own" ... "took on" three more girls ... and, most outrageously ... Sarah and I are having a baby.

I don't care.

From the moment Jeremy popped out and peed on the Doctor, I've loved being a Dad.

Most people only get to do it once ... as I head into my third round ... praying I don't die before I'm done.

The rain stops.

"We can ride our bikes to lunch," Mad hopefully suggests.

"Yeah," I say, appreciating it all.

Old people don't like mud puddles ... afraid they might fall in ... break something ... go to the Hospital ... never get out.

"Even if it's raining, we can ride our bikes to lunch."

There's no response.

"What's the worst that'll happen? We'll drip in our food?"

I love being young cause I believe ... if I refuse to get old ... I can stay young till I die.

My kids help me do that.