You know your kids are getting old when you mention the Easter Bunny and one of them responds with profanity. But he responds to everything with profanity.
We made a weekend trip to Jen's hometown in Illinois. Ethan said it was so deserted it was like being in a zombie video game.
That evening we went to "supper" at 5:30 at one of the two local restaurants--the one that was open in the "evening."
Yesterday Samuel and Grandpa hung out talking hard drives.
We had an early Easter dinner at Jen's sister's house in the country. The women cook all the food, then the men are served first. My opinion? As long as midwestern farmers don't come to my Upper West Side apartment and lecture me on how much I should tip the sushi delivery guy, their food-serving traditions are none of my business either. The food was great, by the way.
Feeling about ten pounds heavier, I floated the idea to Samuel and Ethan of walking the five miles back to town. They agreed.
About a half mile down the road we came to a farm that reminded Samuel of Old Man Peabody's farm from "Back to the Future."
Later we took a shortcut through a cornfield, almost stepped on a dead skunk, were attacked by a swarm of gnats, and debated whether cows squat to poop.
On the edge of town, we threw rocks at a barn. And mostly missed.
It was a good Easter.
By the time they're teenagers, birthday parties are no longer the huge thing they were when they were five. But we still had a party for Ethan's 15th birthday, and we mostly just tried to stay out of the way and not make it uncool.
Party pics:
Back home for birthday brownies...
Just thinking about all the d-heads in the world who strap explosives to their bodies or go on murderous shooting rampages and take out a bunch of innocent people for no good reason other than their own self-absorption, and what a crappy place they make the world for everyone else.
I'm glad you show no signs of becoming such a person.
If you ever get to that point, please take a breath and call me...we'll walk the dogs to the deli and talk about life and love and girls and transgender people and Utopian societies and how PC your school is. You can use the F word as much as you want, and we'll work through it.
I hope you know that I don't care whether you become a doctor or a writer or a pro wrestler or whatever. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be.
If you want to go to college, go to college. If you want to live with us when you're 25 and go clubbing every night (which is what you once said you planned to do), I'm actually fine with that. I'm so grateful to have you in my life that I really don't care about the details.
Just be cool to other people along the way, okay? Things will work out. Even if they don't they do.
I just found this old picture of you and Aaron, and it made me smile. Even when I'm 95, I'll still think of you like this. If your grandson visits me in the urine-smelling dining hall of my retirement home, I'll probably call him Ethan. He'll wonder what the hell I'm babbling about. When you're old you mostly just remember the things you loved most.
Happy birthday, by the way. You're a great son.
...which is okay.
But I am having kind of a creative eruption lately. I just finished a new manuscript, which I'm excited about, and I'm working on revisions to another. I have ideas for five or six more.
Separately, there's interest from publishers for two existing manuscripts. I've learned not to count my chickens before they're hatched. But it would be nice to have another book or two in the pipeline.
Last but not least, on a completely unrelated note, here are some pics from the Studio School gala this weekend:
