Motorcycle

I’m prone to back spasms. Sometimes they hurt so much I can barely breathe. So, I lay on the bed on my stomach while you both brush your teeth.

From around the corner, I hear you, Zoey. “Lukas, let’s play motorcycle.” And before I can protest, you both run in, jumping on my back with reckless abandon. It hurts, and your mom calls out, “Kids, get off your daddy. You’re hurting him.”

Can you guess what you say, Zoey?

If you guessed, I don’t care, you’d be right.

It hurts—neither of you are light—but I sway back and forth, back and forth, until I swing you off me. You both laugh and naturally shout, “Again!” before jumping right back on.

“Daddy’s back hurts,” I say.

“Again! Again!” you both chant.

Your mom laughs. And so, we go again.