Let me ask you a question. It's been on my mind since a friend asked it during our bi-weekly gathering of the Circle of Six. If you haven't heard of us yet, allow me to explain that we are six handsome middle-aged men who get together every other Wednesday to sample chocolate cheesecakes and consider deep questions such as, "I wonder if we should go on a diet?"

I was a skinny child. So skinny that I had only one vertical stripe on my pajamas. So skinny that I was swimming in a lake one summer and a dog came out to fetch me – three times. My mother used to scrub laundry on my rib cage. People looking for a toothpick at the dinner table would grab me. You get the picture.

The following quiz is intended solely for the amusement of married couples. Keep in mind that quiz results should not be brought up during petty arguments, loud disagreements or in front of the children. Please answer the questions honestly, bearing in mind that while it is impossible to fail this test, your answers may determine whether or not you spend the night on the couch.

It's bath night. Around the world hurried and harried parents seize precious moments to rest and recharge while their children set uncontested Olympic records in the dunking and I-got-more-water-on-the-walls-and-ceiling-than-you-did events.

The older I get the more I'm convinced that memory and smell are linked. I love the smell of Christmas: Sugar cookies baking. The turkey sizzling. I love the taste of Christmas too: Mixed nuts. Mandarin oranges. Fresh dirt from one of my brother Tim's incoming snowballs. Ah, Christmastime.

I have been a husband for nearly 10 years now, so needless to say I know virtually everything there is to know about my wife's needs. For instance, I know that she can get by without food for 40 days and 40 nights, but definitely not without chocolate. I also know that she needs clean laundry, flowers, nurturing, romance, protection, a listening ear and clothes that fit. Whereas my basic needs are…well, pizza.

Well, I finally did it. After years of checking out prices, I finally talked myself into buying one. After years of admiring those tiny leaves and gnarled branches, I mustered up the courage to bring one home. It sits in my living room window now. Soaking up the sun's rays. Reaching out for moisture. And growing… ever so slowly.

Comedy was not my first choice. I wanted to be strong and good-looking. I was neither. So my dad tried to console me, "Poverty is hereditary," he said, "you get it from your children."

I was a crazy kid. Teachers didn't appreciate me and my parents wondered if there was hope for me. The trouble with being a crazy kid is that God has a sense of humour and one day He may give you some children of your own. The other night after scolding my sons and sending them to bed snackless, I sat in the living room, wondering if there's any hope at all for my descendants. "Do you ever wonder," I asked my wife, "what will happen to a generation that doesn't even know which way to wear their hats? Or how high to pull their pants? A generation raised on Nintendo and Eminem?"

Dear Son,
It seems like last Wednesday that you graduated from kindergarten with a Life Saver dangling from your cardboard hat. I congratulate you on waiting until the final prayer to crunch that candy. And I congratulate you today on an even greater achievement: graduation from high school.

It seemed like a bad idea at the time. But a friend was listening and sipping coffee, so I thought I'd give it a try. "Hey," I said, past a mouthful of muffin, "how about we get some guys together a few times a month for a reading group. We'll discuss something serious like Plato…or Archie comic books. We can meet at my house."

Sixteen years ago I had three theories about raising children. Now I have three children and no theories. I used to know what parents should do with kids who had runny noses. Or short fuses. Or full diapers. I knew what parents should teach their children about life, liberty, and the pursuit of stuff. I knew what time to send them to bed.

On Tuesday morning my wife and I invited 10 small boys to help us celebrate our son's birthday party. When I was a child I squeezed the front brakes on my three-speed bicycle while flying around a gravel corner. That was not a wise decision either.

Twelve years ago, I began writing a column called "Family Matters" for a popular magazine. It was a rather daunting task for a young father. One night, as the deadline loomed, I told my wife Ramona about the stress of it all. "I can't do it," I stammered. "Look at me. I'm an imperfect father. I get mad at my kids. I slid hamsters down banisters when I was a child. I argue with my wife sometimes."

The football playoffs are on, but I don't know the scores. Two weeks ago, you see, we unplugged our television.