This morning, I took my little boys to a new home daycare. I was proud to do it.

They had been a few times before, but it was my first time meeting the daycare people – a sweet, old Italian couple – Angela and Nick.

Days before, my wife had mentioned to me that Angela and Nick had grown children in their late-thirties. They’re unmarried and getting to the age where it’s unlikely they’ll have children.

Angela and Tony are happy, loving people – you know it instantly. They’d make wonderful grandparents and there’s a hint of ache in their eyes because they know it. Now, as a father of two, myself, I begin to understand the feeling. I know I’ll miss this stage when it’s gone.

So, that’s why Angela and Tony take care of kids a few days a week. They don’t need money, but they need to experience the energy and affection of children again.

In the couple minutes I spoke with them, that’s all I thought about it. Angela and Tony didn’t know it, but it was. I saw two people just wanting to feel the joy of children again. So noble, honest and pure, I thought. I was proud to leave my kids with them.

But when I stepped down the steps of the front porch, leaving the house, I looked down and noticed that my fly was open. My old orange Calvin Klein boxer-briefs contrasting so vividly with the khaki corduroy. There’s no way they couldn’t have noticed.

God-dammit, I thought. Fucking god-dammit.