Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.

Having a child is surely the most beautifully irrational act that two people in love can commit.

I recently turned fifty, which is young for a tree, mid-life for an elephant, and ancient for a quarter-miler, whose son now says, "Dad, I just can't run the quarter with you anymore, unless I bring something to read."

Beware of people who fall at your feet. They may be reaching for the corner of the rug.

Dentists tell you not to pick your teeth with any sharp metal object. Then you sit in their chair and the first thing they grab is an iron hook.

A person with no children says, "Well I just love children," and you say "Why?" and they say, "Because a child is so truthful, that's what I love about 'em - they tell the truth." That's a lie, I've got five of 'em. The only time they tell the truth is if they're having pain.

A new father quickly learns that his child invariably comes to the bathroom at precisely the times when he's in there, as if he needed company. The only way for this father to be certain of bathroom privacy is to shave at the gas station.