I pulled my calf almost a week ago. On our way home from school, the boys like to race me between light poles. It’s a holdover from the Olympics where the likes of Usain Bolt and Andre Degrasse and their big smiles fostered a love of good natured competition in my boys. Every now and again, Charlie will get down like he’s in racing blocks and chant out the starter’s calls.

“On your marks, daddy!” he’ll call from behind my elbow.

I’ll match his stance, standing up, and always try to cheat by running on “get set,” to a chorus of taunting laughs.

This time, however, my “get set” tease lasted two strides. I pulled my calf bursting from the blocks. It’s been a week of dull throbbing pain. The price to pay for being a dad, I say to myself.

I hurt myself playing with kids, teasing them, making them giggle. I pulled a muscle because I took their challenge seriously, and made it silly.

Dads are goofs. The reason we get portrayed in mainstream media stereotypes as bumbling punch lines is, well, because we are.

I love to raise up involved fatherhood and celebrate that dads are just as good at parenting as moms are, but I need to concede one point to the opposition when it comes to dads: we love being kids.

man-child

Disclosure: Thanks to Chevrolet Canada for giving me use of a 2016 Chevy Cruze for a weekend escape with my family to Edmonton last week. It’s a grown up car that knows how to have fun. With onboard wifi via OnStar and pep for days, it was a great ride to get us up and back to Edmonton comfortably.

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