I haven't figured this out yet . . .
“Giddy-up” they say, climbing onto daddy’s back. “Go faster!” they demand, “turn here!” they shout. It’s back-breaking labor I tell you, ferrying children who expect me to zoom from room to room. It’s easy at first, fun even, bounding about with thirty some odd pounds on your back. But the turn from enjoyment to drudgery comes quickly. “Giddy-up!” they shout, “go faster!” they demand. I must be a professional equine impersonator for them to think my endurance could be so high. How else could my children continue to treat me so inhumanely? This long-standing, back riding tradition between father and child isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. “Giddy-up!” they yell, “go faster!” they declare. If I had a chiropractor, he’d chastise me for my choice to give rides to my children. Since I don’t have a chiropractor, I’ll have to wait until the kids break my back before I get that lecture. But what else am I supposed to do? Not give my kids one of the simple joys of childhood? “Giddy-up!” they say, “go faster!” they cry. I think I’ll be the one crying tonight.