Tonight I drove you both home way past bedtime. You fell asleep on the car ride home while Cohen played in his car seat like it was midafternoon. After we pulled into the driveway and I parked the car, I scooped up Cohen and came around to see if I could carry you too. Although you were clearly sleeping, as soon as the seat belt clasp snapped open you put your arms out to embrace me. As I scooped, you whispered, "Dad, can you put me in bed first?" I didn't expect you to say this because you are, well, a reluctant bedtime adventurer. I carried you both up the stairs to bed, toiling under your collective weight. As I shifted and struggled and slipped my way up the stairs, you put one arm around me and the other arm around Cohen and we became one awkward, clingy, stumbling mess. After I set Coey down and put you in bed and took off your jeans and sneakers and said "Goodnight, I love you," you said, "I love you too, Dad," and right now I'm having a glass of wine and thinking about that moment and cannot escape the thought that I'm a Dad and that, simply, is enough to fill any glass or table or backyard.