Can I tell you how damn tired I am? I’m exhausted. Really damn tired. I’ve been working like mad to get everything done and it feels like nothing ever does get done. Sigh. I should be almost done. Right? Right? Someone please tell me I’m almost done.

My time needs have been compounded by the holidays and the fact that I have a kid home with me all day long. I’m pulling double duty during the day and working through the night. And damn it if I’m not too damn honest about my billable hours. I’ve been told that I’m overly generous. But, I’m working for people I consider friends, so I bill what I feel is appropriate.

So, Christmas was good. Matilda seems to have loved all of her gifts. Especially Tony Hawk 4. She’s a skate hound. Gertrude really dug the idea of Christmas. She’d open a gift and exclaim, “Wow! Wow!” It didn’t matter what it was, she just was amazed by the fact something was hidden behind those colorful pieces of paper.

Her favorite gift, I think, is the series of Wiggles tapes she was given. She stared at the boxes lovingly, as if the photos of The Wiggles were actually family portraits. When she saw them, she wiggled appropriately. And, of course, we’ve watched them all repeatedly.

My lovely wife loved the gift I gave her, which was a replica of the Evenstar pendant Arwen gives Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings. She’s worn it constantly since she opened it. I suppose that’s a good sign. However, she truly believes that she’s now and elf and refuses to trade her immortality for a time-expired mortal life with me.

Sigh.

My gifts? Well, I got a real Pendleton shirt. Like the Beach Boys used to wear. I think I may be the only person on Earth who thinks it’s cool. But it is. I also got a groovy Guinness t-shirt, bongos (so I can be like Richard Feynman) and a bumper sticker that says “Feynman Lives!”. Can’t wait to put that one up.

Add to that a bunch of DVDs, CDs, gift certificates and it all adds up to one hell of a haul. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I’ll try to repeat it.

Finally, to round out the season, I picked up something for myself that should make my working life easier. The Sidekick is a combination phone and personal organizer. I’ll be able to get my calls and pick up my email on the same device. How is this good? I’ll be able to get my email anywhere. I won’t be tied to this damn computer anymore. Plus, it has a full keyboard so I’ll be able to respond.

You have no idea how freeing it’ll be to be able to sit outside and answer my email without worry. Or in front of the TV. Or at someone else’s house. I’ll be able to do portions of my job while hanging out with my family SOME WHERE OTHER THAN MY OFFICE. Do you have any idea what that means?
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It’s funny, but the more I work, the more I get stressed, the more I look at my kids in wonder. I get overwhelmed with love.

We spend so much time worrying about what people will think, how this deadline is looming, how much money we’re making and so much more, but sometimes we just forget what’s really important.

I have no idea what’s important to you. But what’s important to me are these two little girls for whom my life exists. Sure, the seven-year-old and I are constantly squabbling over silly things these days and the baby seems to prefer her mother over me, but still . . . this is why I’m here.

Everyone is told that they have a purpose in life. As you grow, you assume that yours will be lofty. You’ll cure cancer. You’ll invent something that will make life easier. You’ll write the Great American Novel.

My purpose in life is to make these two girls smile. Because when they smile nothing else matters. Not my stupid deadlines, not the burning acid in my stomach. Nothing.

Because when they smile I look at that little electric face and say to myself, “I did that. I created a pure emotion in someone else. And damn it, I’m proud.”

If my life is to be measured by giggles and smirks, then so be it. Because when I look back on my life I’ll be able to say I truly accomplished something. I made two (hopefully happy) human beings.

And that beats the hell out of the Great American Novel.