Today officially marks the beginning of Spring Break. I just took a midterm that I don't feel to confident about, but a week of lying on the beach should cure that. After reading an article about The Simpsons movie being released this July it dawned on me that I have been watching that show since I was four. My father and I would gather round our 19" television with a bag of Cape Cod white cheddar popcorn every Sunday and I would laugh whenever he did, regardless of whether or not I knew what was going on. At that age there was no way I could appreciate the satirical genius of The Simpsons; they were just strange yellow cartoon people bouncing around but the fact that my father loved that show so much kept me watching as well. For a half hour every Sunday we shared that time together. My mother wasn't into the show so it was just me and him, sitting on that dingy tattered old couch which we replaced soon after. On Monday mornings he would get up early for work and I would follow suit, sitting on the floor of the bathroom watching him shave his face and asking questions about whether he thought aliens existed or not. I was in awe of him. His presence was not one of intimidation, but I always wanted my actions to please him. His patience was a river which ran clear and without an end in sight. When summer rolled around we would ride our bikes into town. Mine was hot pink and I loved it more than anything. It had originally come with training wheels but after seeing other kids zoom by on two wheels alone I was determined to learn. Every day my father would take me out, never letting go of my seat and handlebar until I demanded otherwise. At first I could balance for a few seconds on my own, then it was a minute, then we were riding miles and miles. My short curly hair would be squashed by an equally pink helmet and the wind against my cheeks as I careened down hills was addicting. Once in second grade we had a bring-your-bike-to-school day and a police officer would come to inspect our bikes and talk about safety. He told me my bike was too small for me and that I should get a new one. I was nothing short of heartbroken and when I told my father was had been said that night at dinner he sternly replied, "That jackass doesn't know what he's talking about." So my hot pink bike remained in the garage for a few years after that until there was no denying that I really had outgrown it, and then my father donated the thing to goodwill. I imagined my bike living on forever until time ended, flying down streets and trekking through neighborhoods for all eternity.

I'm looking out my window now at all the kids heading out for the beach or the airport or wherever, but J isn't coming till Sunday so I'll have to sit tight for a few days. Naptime!