As much as I dislike stereotypes, I have to admit that we looked liked like a stereotypical Davisite family – a tribe of self-propelled, sandal-wearing suburbanites, rolling over the asphalt plains of the city we call home. I was in front, running interference, while the rest of my brood pedaled behind me. My lovely wife’s bicycle towed Barbarian Child on his trailer bike. Junior was on his own small bicycle; unsteady, but learning quickly.

I heard the following exchange behind me.

Barbarian Child: "I can ride with one hand!"

Junior: "Well, I can ride with NO hands!"

kuh-RASH!!!!!!

I swear to God, Barbarian Child is an evil genius.

I circled back, and surveyed the damage. Skinned hands and scratched paint. My better half was comforting the fallen.

“Well,” I puffed, “that sounded like someone just had a learning experience.”

Junior nodded through his tears. I wonder what he learned: not to ride with no hands, or not to let his younger brother exploit his hubris?

It’s good that I have a tender-hearted wife. I’m just not very sympathetic once the tears start falling. I’m cold and practical. It’s not that I don’t care. I do. But instead of kissing away the tears, I’m busy asking the important questions. Do we need to go to the hospital or not? Is that going to leave a scar? Is this something I can fix, or do we need to get professionals involved.

I blame my father. His motto was simple – “If you want sympathy, you can find it in the dictionary. It’s between sh*t and syphilis.”

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I am a horrible person. My lovely wife is a kind and gentle soul, and I do the most terrible things to her. She is hardly squeamish, but when she spotted the bee on her roses, she got agitated and called me to the kitchen to “take care of it.”

She is an independent woman who rarely needs my assistance. But her usual method of venomous insect removal involves a swinging large chemistry textbook, and the roses were in a vase. She rather liked the vase, and hoped I might finally come in handy. Silly girl.

I gave her the roses the day before, and I did not want to knock them all over the floor. So I approached the bee cautiously. I snuck my right hand behind the insect, while my left hand waved in front of it. I made big circles with my left hand, outlining an orbit in a counterclockwise direction. Smaller and smaller the circles became. My hand spiraled towards the center of the bee’s little head. My right hand inched ever closer to the bee-butt.