AFRICAN AMERICAN DAD

I just wrote a depressing pre-vacation post (“If only Life Were a Vacation”). But to honor my cousin, who has a very good sense of humor by the way, I’m going to try to leave for vacation on more of a high note. I think he’ll like this:

Yesterday I sat in the kitchen, near the door, thumbing through a tabloid magazine that I like more than I should. Then Devin walked in. He was rolling my empty suitcase, determined to get past me. “Move it Daddy. Move your big butt,” he demanded playfully.

“Devin, what the heck are you doing?”

“I’m taking the suitcase into the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there are no suitcases allowed in the kitchen, Devin.”

He thought about my firm statement, as he always does when I’m laying down the law. The boy responded with a shrug, his palms facing the ceiling,

“Um, I, uh, don’t see any signs.”

“What? What are you talking about?” I was pretty sure I knew where he was going with his retort, though I had to make sure. He went on,

“There are no signs in here anywhere. Nothing says ‘no suitcases allowed in the kitchen.’”

He gave me a look that told me he knew he was wrong, but he had to try anyway. I laughed a hearty laugh and told him that there didn’t need to be a sign.

“Fine!” He said as he left… with the suitcase rolling behind him.