Coming Home

I never know what to expect when I come home from work, so I take a deep breath. The moment I put my key in the door, the house could explode. Or it could be as quiet as the middle of the night. The first thing I look for is my older son's sneakers. If they're lying around in the front hall, it means that he's not in them somewhere else.

The next thing I look for is my wife. If she's in the kitchen, it means that she's probably not sick to her stomach. If she's upstairs in our bedroom under the covers, things can go either way. If the lights are off, that's not a good sign. As soon as I see her face, I know everything I need to know.

And if her look doesn't kill me, I'll go looking for my older son. If I hear music (and don't smell anything funky) coming from his room, it means that I probably won't get sick to my stomach. If he's wearing headphones and typing on his laptop, it's 50-50 that something's not right. If he answers my questions with one word, make it 75 percent. If he answers with one word and doesn't look at me, I know everything I need to know.

After that, I'll usually poke my head in to say hi to my younger son and it's always such a relief to see him. Then I'll go downstairs to eat some dinner and sometimes he'll come along just to keep me company.