There are about three things in this world that make my father happy. The first is his family, second is sports and the third is music.

From about first to sixth grade, I would sit in my father’s lap and listen to the same five U2 songs on repeat.

I remember being so frustrated after school. I couldn’t wait to take off that stupid green and blue plaid kilt that the eighth graders hiked up so much you could see their booty shorts. I didn’t hate school, I just hated being uncomfortable.

My dad’s room was adjacent to mine, but my bathroom was in between us. When I walked by him that day, I tiptoed so that he wouldn’t call me in to ask about my day. I hated that. I can’t believe that I thought I had so much going on.

“Lex?” I heard from the bedroom. Crap.

“Yeah, dad?”

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

I walked ever so hesitantly, for when he usually called me or my sisters into his room it was either to show us a scene from “Passion of the Christ” or to listen to and admonish thirty scenes from the “Three Stooges.”

He was sitting at his desk rather than in his bed, and he had a YouTube link pulled up. I knew I was in for a treat because for my father to figure out how to work YouTube, it had to be something good.

I walked in and sat on his lap, resting my weary head lovingly on his broad shoulder.

I closed my eyes because the clip that he had to show me was a music video with a 1:47 long intro and I had such a busy day at school. He still blames me for being bored.

"Where the Streets Have No Name" by U2 rang throughout the household.

My dad’s computer was shaking from the piano keys and guitar solo’s.

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With closed eyes and unintentional foot shaking, I sat on my dad’s lap and listened to the wordless song.

One minute and forty-eight seconds later, though, Bono’s voice caught up with the clash of the drums and the riff of the guitar and the song came to life. We sat there in appreciation of the beautiful melody and nodded our heads in unspoken agreement that we approved.

After the third or fourth time, I was starting to learn the chorus. My dad was gifted with a beautiful voice, but I sound like a tone-deaf seal.

“We’re still building then buuuuuuurning down love, buuuuuuuurning down love.” we sang in horrible harmony.

My dad and I lost ourselves for about thirty minutes, not realizing how loud the music was. We didn’t even care when my mom came in and told us to turn it down. Instead we simply laugh and screamed “I want to take shelter, in the poison rain, where the streets have no name.”

Mom didn’t find it funny.

From that day on, I looked forward to my dad calling me into his room. For as long as I could fit on his lap without crushing my dad, I sat there and listened to U2 songs with him. When we were both in a good mood, we’d listen to "Peace on Earth" and my father would sing lulled versus into my innocent ears. When we needed a “pick-me-up”, we’d listen to "Beautiful Day." When my cousins came over, I would impress them by playing the songs and singing what my dad taught me.

The best part about this memory is that I think it brought more joy to my dad than it did to me. There was nothing like the feeling of making my dad happy, and if that meant falling asleep in his arms to the whole “Joshua Tree” album, then I was more than happy to oblige.

I would do just about anything to be small enough to fit on that chair again.