A few weeks ago I wrote a column confessing my occasional interest in fatherhood. I think I am cured of that now.

My wife and I spent the past few days visiting her sister's family. My sister-in-law and her husband have three children -- 7-year-old twins and a 4-year-old boy.

In fairness, and because it is just plain rude to insult someone's kids on the Internet, my sister-in-law and her husband have raised model children.

The twins, Nathan and Mikah, only have to be told "no" seven times for it to sink in (well below the number of times required for the average child), they have the capacity to sit still and they are rarely seen wearing foodstuffs.

While the same cannot be said of 4-year-old Burke -- who walked up to me and said, "I have sucker stuck to the bottom of my foot," then smiled and walked away -- that just makes him cuter.

All three are about as clean and well-behaved as any non-Victorian-era parent can expect, they are liberal in their dispensing of hugs and they are ridiculously cute. If you were trying to convince someone that parenting is a good idea, you would use these children. They are the ideal.

But here's the thing:

THEY NEVER STOP! Ever.

From the moment they tumble out of bed like a drunken acrobatic troupe to the moment they are wrestled back into their rooms at night they are jumping, running, singing, screaming, crying, scheming little machines of destruction with the attention span of a cat on fire.

The slow adult mind is crippled by all of this. At the end of each day, I found myself exhausted and feeling as if I had done nothing more than react to the kids. I was left with no real time to sit and think about, well, anything.

And I wasn't even doing any proper parenting. I was just playing that uncle role of picking the kids up and spinning them around so as to risk dropping them on the floor and paralyzing them. It's what uncles do. We also plant bad ideas into kids' heads: "Hey, go over and tell that lady that she's a 'sexy mama.'"

The one time I was put in charge of the kids, it was for a short trip to the grocery store.

"No problem," I thought. "Good ol' Uncle Chris can take the kids to the store to pick up some milk and eggs. Simple."

Wrong. We got lost twice because I foolishly followed the driving directions of a 7-year-old.

In the store, I found myself trying to run in multiple directions, growling: "Put that down. Because. Because I said so. Because you'll lose an eye. Here, don't eat that. Take that off. Don't throw that around. Be careful with those eggs. Slow down. Come here. Come here. Come here. How is it that you could hear me when I asked if you wanted brownies, but you can't hear me now? Put your brother down. You're fake crying, I can tell. Give that back to your sister. No, you can't start the car. No. No. No. No. No. Do you think my answer will change? No."

When we got back to the house, I wept.

"You're just seeing all the negative things," my wife told me. "There are good things, too. Kids like to cuddle and they say such funny things."

Dogs cuddle. And I say funny things, but I don't wet the bed -- very often.

Then 4-year-old Burke crawled up and sat on my lap. I sat there, looked at him and thought of how proud it must make his mother and father to watch him grow up.

Somewhere amid all that running around and chasing after their children, they get to see Nathan hit a grand slam home run, or watch Mikah play the role of Clara in the "Nutcracker" or wonder how Burke, who can't yet read, can operate every electronic device in the house. And the constant movement probably seems worth it.

"What's your favorite thing to eat?" Burke's mother asked him.

"Candy necklaces," he said.

"What's your favorite thing that's not candy?" I asked.

"Meat."

Meat and candy necklaces -- you don't need too much more out of life, I suppose. If I were to have a boy of my own, I would hope he'd be so wise. And there you catch me doing it again -- "if I were to have a boy of my own."

I guess I'm not totally cured.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.