'It's weird that you're home'

Earlier this afternoon, a typically chilly but nice mid-March day. I'm upstairs in my closet-sized home office, typing away on my laptop. Front door opens. I yell down "who dat?" My son James barrels inside, sees me at the top of the stairs, and says "it's weird that you're home." He's right. Most Saturdays, I'm at a track or cross country meet, or a swim meet. Or practice. Or somewhere else. Not home in my cluttered closet. Hey. Kid. Get used to it. Old man's gonna be home in the coming days and weeks. A lot.