The days long, the life short

FOR FATHER’S DAY, the toddler left me a hundred little handprints on the windows around the house. What he did was stand at some little window by a door, the sun shining through the thin cartilage of his ears, and smear his sticky breakfast fingers against the glass.

It’s a lot of work, leaving a hundred handprints. When the toddler finished, he sat down at the tiny table where his mother feeds him, put his head on a waffle and pretended to sleep.

“He’s a hard worker,” I told his mother.

“Gets it from you,” she said with a smirk.

More and more, I’ve noticed that she doesn’t look at me when we talk. Remember Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke,” the way he never looked at the other actors in a scene? That’s her. It’s my wife’s way of establishing herself as the focal point of the group. Like she even needs to try.

“You look lovely today,” I tell her.

“Huh?”

“You look great,” I say.

“Can you take out the dog?” she asks.

Funny, how she never asks me to take out the kids. That, I’d gladly do. Take them out and leave them awhile. Let them sit under the magnolia tree and ponder what life would be like without a roof over their well-tended little heads. They wouldn’t miss us as much as the conveniences we provide. “Where am I supposed to plug my cellphone?” they’d whine at sundown. “Stupid tree.”

It is summer and we’re all together again, all under one too small roof. Mold spores from wet swimsuits hang constantly in the air. It’s a pleasant smell, much like mothballs and ammonia. It is offset by the smell of watermelon in the kitchen and me cooking in my clothes.

“I think I’ll walk the dog,” I say.

“Good plan, Dad,” says the boy.

“Come on,” I tell the dog, and he does.

It has been a great summer so far. Two graduations. Two softball tournaments. A birthday. Honestly, it’s been one of those summers of love.

How much love? Well, I’m not sure, but can there ever be enough? Can we ever stop trying? No.

In fact, one recent morning I overheard “Today’s” Matt Lauer asking some TV guest, “What do you mean by sexual dysfunction? Can you define it for me?”

“Honey, why don’t you take that one?” suggested my wife. I think she was slicing peaches at the time.

I explained to her that, to me, all sex is dysfunctional. In bed, I’m always bruising a knee or taking an elbow to the eye. And those are just my physical injuries. There’s no end to my list of emotional turmoil. Sex, by nature, is dysfunctional. If it wasn’t, there’d be no Shakespeare.

“Good, thoughtful answer,” my wife responded.

“Thanks,” I said proudly.

Late in the month, we held a graduation party in our backyard, decorated with balloons in the colors of the older daughter’s alma mater, black and black. Those were her school colors. Black and black. Stupid me, I didn’t discover till her junior year she was attending mortician school.

It was one of those parties that got quickly out of hand, spending wise. Off to the side, there was a rented margarita machine. Before you die, you have to rent one of these stainless-steel marvels. Wherever you are, just plan on staying the night.

There was beer too, and the tapper on the keg broke, as tappers are prone to do. All I really remember is that late in the evening, the older daughter was atop the dining table, swinging her arms and sweetly thanking us for such a fine night. Yes, that margarita machine worked out well.

To their credit, none of her young guests fell off the back of our patio. From what I can tell, no one besides me chucked a dirty dinner plate into the ravine behind our house. It was a decent, well-behaved crowd of bright-eyed twentysomethings. Well, some of the twentysomethings were fortysomething. But who’s counting.

The important thing is that summer is here and so are we. As July begins, we’re preparing coolers for the beach, wrestling boogie boards off the garage shelves.

I spend rare idle moments listening to Vin Scully and wiping the toddler’s sticky Father’s Day gifts from all the doors and windows.

By my count, I’ve erased half his handprints and am seriously thinking of leaving the remaining 50 right where our little Picasso left them.

Summer’s here. Life is short. Handprints can wait.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes .com.