Gresham (age four) rode his bike up into the driveway where Brody and I sat in lawn chairs talking and sort of watching twelve kids play in and around the cul-de-sac.  “I’m going to work,” he said.

“What kind of work are you doing?” I asked.

“Writing songs.  Singing songs.  Saving kids. Seeing friends.”

“That sounds like good work,” I said.  And he rode off imagining he had it so good.