The chair beneath me lets out an obnoxious grunt as I stand up.

I tread lightly across the room, my toes just kissing the floor.

Thump, slap.

Hopeful eyes follow me.

The carpet slithers away and gives way to hardwood floor, its stiffer cousin.

As I approach the closet, I realize my secret is out:

delighted barking has filled the room.

I shake out a long leash, and hear scampering nails on the floor:

barking has become a long, joyous squeal.

“Riley! Come here, boy!”

To him, my call is that of a general yelling “ten-hut.”

He darts at me and clumsily extends his front paws in a too-little attempt to slow down.

He’s learned to stand still as I connect the leash to his collar, but

his unruly tail betrays his excitement.

Ready to explore the neighborhood that has changed mountains in the last three hours, Riley bolts to the door.

I shove open the whining door, and Riley races out, nose to the ground, sniffing the green, green grass.

I'm 31. I've been married for not quite eight years and have three kids. My daughter, the oldest, started kindergarten today. My middle child has autism. He doesn't talk. My youngest is still so little the only personality traits he shows are curiosity and hunger. 

When I met my wife we were in college, neither of us sure what we wanted to do with our lives, only that we wanted to be in each others'.  And that was enough. 

I bounced from shitty retail job to shitty retail job, and ended up with an okay city job. I have Fridays off, and a pension. She stays at home, being a mom. 

It seems like there is never enough money. We're not destitute, and it would be unfair to say we live in poverty, but it's all I can do to pay the bills. If I'm lucky I pick up side work painting houses. We have to start Christmas shopping sometime in September to spread the cost. 

At night, I put my autistic son to bed.  I put on his pajamas, hold him down to brush his teeth, (he's unreasonably strong for a four-year-old) and carry him into his bedroom. I hold him and put his hand on my chest and say "Daddy." I put his hand on his chest and say "Eli." I repeat this until he takes his hand from mine and pats my beard. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he makes his "not-happy" sound, a mix between a coyote yip and a native war cry. Sometimes I can't take it, any of it, and I hold him and weep quietly in the dark where my wife can't see. 

My son can't talk, and I love him. 

My life isn't easy, but it's mine. 

I'll take it.