"Are we there yet?" The words every father expects to hear. Invariably, at every ten-minute interval, my eight-year-old daughter Cynthia, would peel her face from the car window and ask the same question. And dutifully, I would respond, "Almost, sweetie." We had been driving for almost two hours (which should give you an idea of how much I'd had to put up with) to drop Cynthia off at her mother's. Lisa and I had been divorced for about three years, and doggedly, she still demanded to see Cynthia for a month every Christmas. Now, Lisa wasn't exactly Mother of the Year material, but hell—I'm no angel myself. I'm thirty-seven, I smoke, and have a nasty penchant for cursing like a sailor. But dammit, I love Cynthia, and it still kills me every time I drop her off for that dreaded month of Dece