I come to work day in and day out without respite, without fail. There isn't much thanks doled out around the office beyond the assumption that the paychecks will continue. Perhaps that is the only thanks that counts when you get right down to it.

I ride my bike to work each day dodging traffic while thinking of the tasks that lie ahead. Every afternoon, I pedal home and my mind carries the weight of things I wasn't able to get to or couldn't seem to decipher.

And then, in one small act, my life is given back to me by my not-quite 2-year-old son. I get in the shower, clean my carcass, dry off, and open the shower door to see him standing there watching me. I look at him and smile.

"Great job, Dad!" he says.

"Thank you son. Thank you."