Those boys might have it in for me.

Tonight I’ll spike a cup of hot tea with the last of the mango rum left over from our honeymoon. I’ll pop the last Vicodin my wife strategically saved from her last C-Section and wash it all down. Then I’ll get into bed and press “Play All” on the Columbo, Season 1 DVD and that’ll be that. I’ll beat them to the punch.

But first I need to fix their dinner, then feed them, then read to them, then clean them up, then get them to bed.

My wife is working late again. She’s corporate. The place she works is dominated by old white men. She has to work twice as hard to earn half what her white male co-workers earn. And when her boss tells her she needs to work late, she needs to work late. On those nights, I handle the boys.

The boys: Picture the Hanson Brothers from Slap Shot but smaller and harder to catch. They chase each other around the living room couch and coffee table till one of them runs into a wall. They crack each other over the head with wood blocks. They punch each other, full swings and closed fists, and laugh out loud with throats full of joy and mayhem.

I work too, so handling the boys alone after my day is done isn’t exactly a fresh slice of heaven. It’s a lot of work: Homework. Dinner. Brushing the teeth. Putting on the jammies. Getting them down in bed. None of it is easy but we do it. Why? Because we have obligations to our neighbors and the world to make sure the people we bring here to planet earth eat right, do their homework, clean up, mind their manners and read their books. We do all that so in a few years, if they should end up being hoodlums, charlatans, ne’er-do-well’s or menaces to society, we can raise our hands with a clean conscience and say “It’s not our fault. We read Goodnight Moon and The Giving Tree to them; we helped with their homework but didn’t do it for them; we checked their teeth, their hair and under their fingernails. We fed them leafy greens. We took care of our end.”

Tonight I pull assorted vegetables and some chicken from the fridge. I chop it up, toss it in a hot greased up skillet and stir till it’s soft and smokey, then I pour it all back into their dinner bowls. The four of us sit around the little square table in our kitchen next to the window overlooking our driveway. We eat. I pour the colors over my steaming pile: black pepper, orange Sriracha, green Tabasco, yellow mustard, purple vinegar, red Barbecue Sauce, brown hickory wood chips and a pinch of white salt. I mix it, swirl it, scoop it and chew. Fast.

“Can I try some of yours, Daddy?”

“No!” I grunt. “Salt’s not good for you!”

“That’s not fair! How come you get hot sauce and barbecue sauce and mustard and all that colorful stuff and we don’t?”

“Because mind your own fucken business, that’s how come! Now eat!”

Sometimes I’m accused of using language. I’ve been warned to not use language in front of the boys because it isn’t nice and because then I can’t tell them not to use language – they’ll say that I use language so why can’t they. My answer to that is simple: I’m allowed to. I pay a mortgage, a car lease, amex, health insurance, car insurance, fire insurance, earthquake insurance, home insurance, gas, electricity, water and a long bothersome list of city, state and federal taxes. In exchange for that, I get to use language. Besides sex and drugs, using language is the only real benefit of adulthood. By the time you’re married ten years and have kids running all over you, even the first two become scarce. Language is all I got left.

I go back to shoveling it in and choking it down. I finish fast because I need to sit with the little one and threaten him if he doesn’t eat all his veggies. Then I need to smack the middle one on the back of the head as a warning for the next time he throws a hunk of soggy broccoli at his brother. And I need to guilt the older one into using his fork and napkin, not his dirty little fingers and sweaty shirt.

When they’re done and in the bathroom, supposedly brushing their teeth, I clear the table, wash the dishes and check emails on my phone, mostly junk from weight reduction and penis enlargement sites. I don’t dare go into their bathroom anymore when they’re supposedly brushing their teeth. They can brush their teeth or not. I’ve told them. I’m not paying for surgeries when cavities eat away at the nerve endings in their heads, I’ve told them. Their choice. I’ve told them. I pour out cold milk into a sippy cup for the little one and meet them in their room.

In their bedroom, the little one grabs his sippy cup of milk from my hand and spikes it into the carpet, touchdown style. The lid doesn’t come off completely so I pick it up and shove it back into his mouth. I pull his favorite blanket out from under him to soak up the spilled milk from the carpet. The older two are wrestling and jumping on their beds. It’s getting heated. It’s getting loud. It’s getting dangerous. And it’s about to get expensive if another one of those boards under the mattress breaks. I grab number two by the ankles in mid-air and pull him onto his mattress. I use my good shoulder to drive number one onto his pillow. They’re down but still hooting and chirping and barking. I threaten to leave the house for good if they don’t stop the chaos (third time this month). Quiet.

Then I grab the big heavy book.

Using my best British accent, I read the next two chapters from Around the World In Eighty Days. They are listening now: the baby sucking on his milk, the oldest sucking on his greasy little thumb, the middle one staring round eyed at my face, mouth half open. They are beautiful now, lovely and angelic. They listen carefully, they ask about Passepartout, Inspector Fix, Phileas Fogg. I answer and keep reading till we’re all sleepy.

They beg for one more chapter. I look at the three of them, at the four of us. We share DNA and blood and eyes and heart. I helped make them. I named them. I read one more chapter. I tuck them in. I kiss each long and hard on his lips and chin and neck, my fangs dripping unabashedly. They pull me by the neck into their cheeks.

“Sweet dreams, gentlemen,” I say, “you can whisper but I don’t wanna hear you.” I turn out the light.

I close the door and stay standing behind it for a few minutes. I hear them whispering to each other, small quick chirping whispers going back and forth.

I’m certain they’re plotting my assassination.