It was our first family bike ride: me leading with Isaac in a seat behind me, Caleb close on my rear tire, Eli in third, and the wife occupying a spot at the end, from which vantage point she could bark at Eli to stop looking at his wheels to see how fast they are turning, or alert me to any attempts by the baby to free himself from the seat or sling his helmet into traffic.

"Why doesn't Dad have a helmet? Dad, you should wear a helmet."

"Those with substantial life and long-term disability insurance can elect not to wear a helmet."

"Mommy, Dad isn't wearing a helmet."

"Your father makes the rules."

Don't think I won't be using that against her later.

We're off, on a three-mile ride to the ice cream shop. We live in Kansas so it's just a shop, not a shoppe. We ride on sidewalks the entire way and I worry that a tractor-trailer will careen off the road and hit them or that Eli will see a butterfly and pedal into the street or a dog will attack or a part will fall from an airplane and land on someone because that's what I do, all day long as well as in my dreams; I worry about them.

Sometimes I soothe the worrying place by imagining someone trying to snatch my child or attack my family at home, only they don't account for that part of me that has absolutely no problem killing someone, and I choreograph in my head exactly how the fight would go and always the bad people end up a bloody broken mess and exceedingly dead. I tell myself that mental preparation is half the fight. I think I make myself crazier when I do this. It really helps me knock out the last mile of a run, however.

Miraculously we all arrive at the ice cream shop unharmed, sweating, happy, proud. The wife and two littlest are red-faced, being creamy-colored little people, whereas Caleb and I glow with a tanned, manly sheen. We park our bikes and the wife insists on locking them all together with one of those stretchy metal cords, even though we are at an ice cream shop in Kansas. The children are hopping and telling me what flavors they want, and how it absolutely must be in a cone and not a little kid's cup and how it won't be any good if there isn't a cherry on top, and I put my hand in my pocket and realize that it is empty.

I look at the wife. "Did you bring any money?"

This is my way of sharing the blame. She has no money either. She never has money. That is how I keep her from leaving me. So far it has worked, though now we are in a predicament. I break the news to the munchkins, and I see in their little faces the realization that their father is a profound disappointment, not to mention a very poor planner. Now it is all out in the open, the fact that I am a big fat stupid loser. I knew they would find out eventually, but you're never prepared when the dread moment arrives.

Then I have an idea, involving reckless speed and a pickup truck. While the wife takes the two oldest inside to look pitiful and beg for ice water, Isaac and I race back home. On the way I teach him the word "Whee-e-e-e-e." We are very fast, despite the fact that he weighs as much as Refrigerator Perry and is wearing a bulbous bumblebee-themed helmet. Soon we are rolling into parking lot in my truck, and Daddy is again the hero, or at least the guy with the wallet to whom you have to be nice if you want ice cream.

Later we load bikes in the back and pile babies into the cab, sweaty and sticky and smiling, and I think to myself: wouldn't it be nice if every mistake could be redeemed so easily?