[As an aside, if you ever wonder where your weird sense of humor comes from, wonder no longer. Yes, it's your Mom's fault.]
On the day you come across this post, I want you to know that I have always loved you more than words can describe. As proof, I'd like to point you to last evening, which was your night to choose a story for me to read to all of you at bedtime.
You chose this, your newest acquisition:
For the record, while I read, your brother lazed about his bunk bed, Maddie fled the room to read her Beezus and Ramona book, and your mother found an Unspecified Something Else to Do, Safely Out Of Earshot.
Not me. I read, without a hint of irony or neural convulsions, the story of Sunny Daze, Toola-Roola and Skysong forming a girl-horse band. Knowing your love of repetition, I am absolutely certain I will read it again. And again. And again. And again. And again...
And I will do so without hesitation, each time without the slightest hint of unwillingness, irony, derision, or an indication that precious brain cells are stampeding about my cranium in a panic, looking for the fire exit.
Because I love you and it makes you happy.
All I ask is that you simply remember this when you ponder your aging Dad's peculiar--nay, unique--intellectual obsessions. You have my permission to remind me that yours was cheaper.