Dog Day Afternoon

It's official, it's gonna be a Dog Day Afternoon. I’ve been holding my breath (no worries, not literally) for the past few days, anxiously waiting to see if our references checked out and we'd get the go ahead for canine adoption. I am being only mildly sarcastic; this was a much more rigorous process than you would think.

The house has been a little lonely without a dog, not to mention that I never realized what an excellent job Boola did at cleaning the crumbs off the kitchen floor. This family needed a new four-legged resident, and as a group we decided to forgo the breeder this time around and adopt a rescue dog. It seemed like the right thing to do. Even staring my empty nest in the face I am not the least bit tempted to raise another child (many assumed this was a possibility), but adopt a dog, that I can do. Jeffrey started the research; I narrowed the criteria (no Pit-bulls, no German Shepherds, no Rottweilers), he added his own restrictions (nothing that would fit in a pocketbook or could be picked up with one hand). That still left us thousands of dogs to choose from; really mind-boggling how many pets are living in shelters.

Our first stop was the Humane Society, very nice people but a limited selection of dogs (after applying the ruled out varieties). I did have my eye on one sweet pup, but he was visiting with another family and although I tried to mentally convince him through the playroom window that we would be a better choice, they had first dibs and I don’t do second fiddle. As it happens, they did let us spend a little time with my first crush and he was apparently shy with men and seemed to have attachment issues … neither one a good fit for us, so we moved on. The nice shelter lady took pity on me or was just tired of my questions and referred us to a private non-profit shelter closer to home. She even let us search their available pets and called ahead to make us an appointment (and potentially warn them about the needy mom and her teenage sons who tried in vain to mute her). Off we went to the fancy shelter, solely run by a philanthropic animal loving family, busily dog-viewing on my iPad in the car to select potential contenders. Like Match.com for pets, we read their profiles, their likes and dislikes, their personality quirks, and ruled them in or out. And then, like magic, I was smitten with the bio of Roberson, a Boxer/Mastiff mix, “Roberson is a big cuddlebug mush of a dog. He has a soft muzzle and big floppy ears. Roberson loves to go for long walks on our woodland trails.” Roby, you had me at Woof! Further investigation revealed that he was 3-years-old and had arrived here from the South, a mature southern gentlemen, be still my 49-year-old heart. Before the car was in park I knew this was my dog, now I just had to go through the motions and convince everyone else. Little did I know that I would have to be selected, as if any dog or shelter wouldn’t be thrilled that I had chosen them. Nevertheless, I put on my best compassionate face to establish my suitability as a prospective adoptive mom. Before a single dog could be introduced we were interviewed about our family (who lives home, how many hours do we work, what is our neighborhood like), our expectations for a new pet (did we expect him to play for hours or take long runs)  - I was getting nervous; what were the right answers? We’re a flexible family. We can change. After conditional approval we looked through the dossiers and selected potential candidates (Yes, I still knew it would be Roberson, but I didn’t want to show my hand just yet). Some were immediately dismissed as incompatible for our household (Fine, I didn’t want them anyway) and then the speed dating began. One at a time they came out to meet us, accompanied by more than one excited puddle of pee (they couldn’t help it, who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the idea of coming home with us?) Coco was beautiful, but knocked me down at the first hug (David still regrets not capturing that moment for You Tube), Gypsy was sweet but a recent pregnancy had left her with some low hanging reminders of her nursing days and frankly, it felt a bit inappropriate, especially for the boys. And then came Roberson, my intended. Out he came, man’s best friend, not jumpy or nervous, confident and cuddly at the same time. He gravitated first to the boys, the staff lets us know that he relates better to men. I assured them that this was not an issue; I do too. He is playful and calm, no biting even with the four of us clamoring for his attention. He listens when David tells him to sit and lie down (apparently David has been hiding his dog whisperer skills) and we bond while the staff continues their secret evaluation of our family. We pass level one and get to take him outside for a walk. As soon as we are out the door Roby shows his man-swagger and lifts his leg to mark every tree in our path. It’s all good, I’m used to the Boola squat, but I like the macho peeing as long as my leg does not get mistaken for a low branch. Everyone is happy; we walk in rhythm on the leash, no aggressive pulling or veering off to explore. I have some long walks planned for my new companion; I needed to make sure that he was a suitable partner. Roby keeps a good pace, just right for me, with an attitude that says “don’t mess with me” but a face that tells a different story. I know immediately that he’ll keep me safe on any walk, day or night, and would gladly scare away the boogeyman if I were alone in the house. My choice has been confirmed, now we have to take him home.

Alas it was not that simple. Step three, references must be checked, and vets must be called. There is even the possibility of a home visit (do I have to cover the outlets again and lock up the cabinet under the sink?). I am not really worried, who would say anything that would make us unsuitable? There is a certain appreciation for the care in which this organization takes to make a proper placement and they could not have been sweeter or more assuring. This is a no kill shelter, meaning for every dog they place there is room for one more to be rescued. Their hearts are in the right place. They aren’t rushing to get the dogs out the door; they are making sure that they go through the right ones. A noble cause for sure.

Over the last few days we visited Roby one more time, even on Father’s Day the staff stayed late so we could enjoy another walk and some time outside. They called and chatted with both of my listed references and my veterinarian. They did a more thorough background check than most places of employment and all to make sure that Roby would be happy and cared for. As an added level of concern each adoptive family must agree to come back for 6 weeks of obedience and social training, provided free of charge by them. They also welcome their pets back for grooming and boarding, could it get more perfect than this? Last night at 9 pm I got the call on my cell (yes this staff works after hours) to let me know that Roby would love to come home with us, we had their blessing.

Like expectant parents we rushed out to buy a crate and other supplies and rearranged our work and social schedules to make sure that he wouldn’t be alone for the next few days. I am sure that there will be some sleepless nights and some accidents ahead but he’s not a newborn so it should pass sooner rather than later. I’m looking forward to our first walk together; I’ll let him lift his leg as often as he wants. A man has to do what a man has to do. David is ready to assume the role of daytime watchmen while he continues his search for post-collegiate employment (hint, hint …preferably NYC and in the media world, excellent resume and references). Andrew sadly left for the summer this morning before Roby came home, they will have to bond at a later date. Scott has virtually approved of our new family member and we will have a Facetime introduction later today.Jeffrey can’t wait for his man dog and will happily share the responsibility of listening for strange noises in the middle of the night that wake me up and need immediate attention. All in all, this whole process was both an educational and a feel-good experience. On a side note, if you remember from a previous post I had originally chosen another name for my next dog, and the shelter did give us the go ahead for a new name, but somehow it doesn’t seem right, so Roberson or Roby for short(pronounced Row-Bee) it is. And with a boy dog I’m back to being the lone lady of the house, but that usually works in my favor too. In 46 minutes I’m going to claim my man, let the Roby-tales begin…

Post Script: All joking aside, The Simon Foundation in Bloomfield, CT (thesimonfoundation.org) is an amazing place with a staff of caring professionals that are committed to finding good homes for good dogs (and cats). Check them out if you or anyone you know is looking for a new pet.

My Magic Sneakers

I bought magic sneakers. I will reveal their secret powers a little later on, but as usual you have to suffer through some back story. I'm sure you've seen those T-shirts with a smiley face and the Life is Good! slogan. They always annoyed me. Then last week I saw a Facebook post proclaiming "that those T- shirt people got it right" (shout out to JS?), and it got me thinking that maybe they did, life is pretty good. Granted, it has been sort of a gimme the last few days, perfect weather and generally low life-stress at the moment. Nevertheless, on one of my recent extra-long walks I spent some time pondering the famous T-shirt mantra. I have been doing a lot of mental whining lately (I spared you most of it) and decided what if they were right, maybe I should start to focus on the "Good." I’m not being Pollyanna, and who knows, next week Life might be Sh*t, but for the moment I’m going to do my best to see the positive. I would also assume that, for most people I know, the balance sheet of life would weigh fairly heavily in the affirmative. There will always be a few that seem happier or have more stuff or less baggage, but we live in a pretty small bubble around here and I would guess that just outside of it, our lives are looking pretty rosy.

If I had to explain my current euphoria I would have to say that I have started to take stock in the little things. The stuff that maybe I've been taking for granted or what generally gets pushed to the bottom of the life pile underneath the bills and the laundry and deciding what to cook for dinner. I think I had a "moment" (I won't say an Aha moment, too Oprah) on the aforementioned "extra-long walk." It was a perfectly warm day with clear blue skies and low humidity (the humidity factor is key for me).  I took my usual route, up and down the steep hills of my neighborhood, in and out of the cul-de-sacs of green lawns and flowers in full bloom. I had my head phones on, a perfect walking playlist (if I'm not careful I start dance-walking and singing out loud) and my new sneakers. It was revolutionary. When I started this walking thing a few months back I never invested in proper footwear.  I have been known to fully wardrobe myself for a new hobby (golf was an expensive one) and then just as I rip the tags off and the return period has ended, I have moved on to a new endeavor. Thus, I already had sneakers and sweatpants, so walking seemed to be a non-investment sport. As the walks became longer the blisters seemed to be a part of the package; I did feel as if maybe they were the battle scars of an athlete. Of all the labels I have been given in my lifetime, athlete has never been one of them, so I put Band-Aids on my injured heels with pride and continued walking. Then on a recent outlet trip I visited the Nike store and there in front of me were walking sneakers, cute ones in black with hot pink trim, and I thought maybe I should give them a try. It was instant Foot nirvana, my instep resting one a gel bed and my heels in a seemingly abrasion-free zone. Worst case scenario, they'd look good and I'd buy more Band-Aids. But no, the first walk was liberating, I could have gone another 5 miles. Apparently there is a reason people buy "real" sneakers, and the "fashion sneaker" category is just that, as in not meant for anything more than looking good. Anyway, back on my inaugural sneaker walk, it occurred to me that these adorable $59.99 Nikes made all of me happy, not just my battered feet. Instead of thinking about how painful the last mile home would be and how fast I could kick off my shoes at the front door, I just enjoyed the scenery and the music. I nodded hello to the other walkers, the gardeners, the cable guys (why is there always a Comcast truck parked somewhere on my route), and waved to the cars with familiar faces. Headphones give you license to not stop and say Hi, no one ever thinks you are being rude, it's a sweaty free pass. That's where it all began. What other little obstacles had been preventing me from enjoying the view? Maybe I had to stop putting bandages on the issues and just take steps to fix them or ignore them. So I promised myself to give it a shot, or at least try not to focus on the bruises that take away the pleasure of the journey. Just like Dorothy (I never miss a chance to make a Wizard of Oz reference), the power was in the shoes, I just had to discover it on my own.

My first few days out of the happiness gate were better than expected. It was Father's Day weekend which is usually kind of a downer for me, but Jeffrey is a father, an amazing one, and he deserves to be celebrated. We didn't have a plan, a few activities in mind, but figured we'd just go with the flow and enjoy a quiet family weekend (minus one family member, Scott did his best, but couldn't get home). Friday night was our usual dinner out with Andrew, a great Thai meal and an especially chatty son. Saturday morning Jeffrey and I enjoyed coffee and the paper while the boys slept, and discussed the day ahead. Watching me once again fight with my temperamental repaired iPad, he suggested a trip to the Apple store for a new one. I reminded him that it was Father's Day weekend, the presents weren't supposed to be for me (not that there was anything wrapped and hiding in the closet for him either, we are not big present people). In classic Jeffrey style he responded that the only present he wanted was to make me happy, and I would never want to disappoint him, so I guess I had to get a new iPad. But, it can't be all about me, and I knew just the thing to share the love. It was time for a new dog. I knew that he wouldn't push it until I was ready, but this seemed the perfect day to start the process. There was already a plan in place for Jeffrey and the boys to visit the animal shelter, but without me joining them (which I hadn't planned on doing) it was just window shopping. And so it was decided, the four of us would go get an iPad and then we'd go look for a new dog. We spent the day shopping, for technology and puppies, in and out of the car, laughing with and at each other and it was perfect. For a little while it seemed like I found the elusive "pause" button and life was stuck in one of those magical family moments. We got home well after dinner time with my new iPad (can’t you tell the ease with which I am typing), it's snappy orange case and a potential new doggie. I don't want to waste what I'm sure will be a furry blog, so I will save that story for later in the week.

Sunday, Father's Day, had a pre-planned father-son golf outing. Nothing fancy, just the three of them at a local course sharing one set of clubs and some man bonding. Apparently cell phones were left in the car (on purpose) which may be the best Father's Day gift of all. I used the alone time to buy a card at Walgreens, digging through the unloved cards, literally thrown in a rolling cart for the last-minute wives and children (no joke, see the photo on my Facebook page) and made a quick visit to my father. I wasn't planning on it, but got in the car after the card purchase and that's where I ended up. I also arranged a post-golf visit with our prospective new puppy so later that afternoon we all loaded in the car again for a walk and some playtime with Roby (I hope didn't just jinx it by mentioning his name). Back on the road, we headed to a favorite dinner spot down towards the shore, roasted clams and corn on the cob charred in the husk and dripping with butter (you're salivating, I know). We had a cooler packed with margaritas and beer and water bottles for Andrew, our under-age potential designated driver. An unexpected meeting with best friends at the restaurant led to combined tables and contraband. On a side note, wouldn't you know that a diner at the next table was wearing one of "the" T-shirts, its happy face slogan staring me in the face the whole night; an obvious cosmic poke. Lots of eating and even more laughing, ice cream for dessert and a night cap at their house on the beach, another perfect day. Joy once again found in the simple and the unexpected. Only thing preventing 100% satisfaction was Scott not being with us, but he made his presence known with a bottle of Jeffrey's favorite Bombay Sapphire Gin, hand delivered by David. If I had tried to orchestrate the perfect Father's Day weekend it would have paled in comparison to this one.

It's now 10:54 pm on Monday and Life is still feeling pretty Good! I don't need the T-shirt (and although I learned the lesson, truthfully they still annoy me). I've got happy feet, a new attitude and my magic sneakers; together they'll lead the way.

A Mall Tale

I took the day off today. I have the next 16 days to sneak in another 5 days or so of vacation time or I’ll lose it, so I decided to celebrate the first day of sunshine in what seems like forever by taking a “staycation” day. Andrew also had a free day pre-finals and needed a few things before he leaves for his summer as a camp counselor next week. He requested a trip to the mall (can’t study all day) and well, that is an offer I would never refuse. As a mother of 3 sons, there has not been an abundance of "can we go to the mall" cries in my house. More likely to hear "Do we have to go the mall...?" Practically blasphemy in my world, the mall is a happy place; how did I give life to these non-believers? To be honest I've been spending less time at the mall in recent years, perhaps due to double college tuitions or the ease of on-line shopping. Lately each visit is more for a necessity or just a pleasant way to waste a few hours.  Virtual shopping doesn't give me nearly as much joy, I need to touch and try on and see how I feel in a potential purchase. Web shopping has its own rush when I click "add to cart" but I like to leave it there for a while and see if I'm still fixated on it later. I put items on a “mental hold” and sometimes just the thought of a purchase is enough, no shipping required. When I do complete a transaction, less often than you would think, it's a bit of a letdown, knowing I have to wait for delivery. I'm an immediate gratification kind of gal, "I want it now", like Veruca Salt (Willy Wonka reference). When the UPS packages arrive I am faced with the moment of truth, still love it or what was I thinking. Then, the choice, can't wait to wear it or crap, I have to go to the post office to return it. The mall eliminates the waiting and return postage; "yes" you're coming home to my closet or "no" back to the rack. Occasional buyer’s remorse does require that some of the chosen ones never get a wearing, but a return always offers the hope for something better. I know what you're thinking, and I am a little obsessed, but acknowledgment is power and I can and do shop with control. I can't always tell a waiter to skip the bread basket (and almost never do) but I can leave the mall empty handed and log-off jcrew.com with a full cart of pretend purchases.

My mall love began at an early age. Back in 1974, I was 12 year old, when WestFarms Mall entered my world. Almost every Saturday my parents would drop me off with my friends, $20, store credit cards and a parental note allowing purchasing power. Something tells me none of the above would work for today’s teenage girls. I remember in the early years we’d anxiously wait to see what new stores would open, pushing each other into the temporary white construction facades if someone got too close. We’d try on clothes that our parents would never let us buy and make-up and jewelry that we’d never wear. Lunch was at Kathy John’s, a restaurant and pseudo old-fashioned candy store with big wooden barrels filled with penny candy. At some point we’d use the pay phone and call a parent to come get us. With any luck I’d come home with something new; who remembers Huck-a-poo shirts or Sasson jeans? It went on like that for the a few years until my mall weekends ended abruptly with a shoplifting incident at JC Penney, that after that day, was never spoken about again. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I was so traumatized by my capture by mall security guards, my winter coat pockets filled with Bonne Belle lip smackers, and ushered to the JC Penney security office that from that moment on I have been a law abiding citizen (at least when it comes to petty theft). I had money and the credit cards with me, but when the cool girls invite you to hang out with them at the mall, the five-finger discount seemed a fairly harmless way to fit in. Obviously my first venture into the dark underbelly of the “bad girls” did not end well for the 4’10” goody-two-shoes who was also the Student Council president. My parents were called, I was sent home in shame with a warning that I was not to enter JC Penney until I was 18. I kid you not, I never did (and in truth, it was no great sacrifice in my pursuit of fashion). Sadly, I do have to admit that there were moments in my adult life where I did have to cross the JCP threshold and each time I took a nervous breath wondering if somewhere in the deep recesses of the security offices was a tattered black and white photo from my early years of crime. Would the now seasoned mall cop of my youth recognize me and search my baby bag for potential stolen goods? Happily I have escaped any further brush with the law and the reputation shattering listing in the local police log.  At some point I felt it necessary to share this unfortunate chapter with my teenage children, a parental moment of “scared straight”, saving this generation from a life of crime. I am actually imagining my mother reading this blog thinking, I can’t believe she told this story. Sorry Mom, dirty laundry has been aired, I think most people know I turned out OK and the transgressions of my pre-teen years are no reflection on your parenting skills.

Today’s trip to the mall was far less eventful, as they usually are with boys. We had 4 items on the list and that is exactly what we bought. No impulse purchases, all accomplished in less than an hour and back in the car. Not even the offer of an Aunt Annie’s pretzel or visit to Game Stop could entice him to hang out even a second longer than necessary. Although my sons think that I am forever pining for a daughter to enjoy “malldom” with me, they are sadly misinformed. Yes, a mother/daughter shopping trip sounds fun and I do still enjoy plenty of them with my mom (wish she still paid and hung up the discarded clothes in the fitting room) but I have come to realize that there is only enough purchasing power in my wallet for one mall lover. For a mother that can’t say no, even to the limited desires of sons, a daughter would surely have made us the best dressed family in the homeless shelter (I share that line with RW, we both realized this early on when nearly maxing out the credit cards with clothing for infant sons). My boys have simple needs, granted they have excellent taste (hello, who is their mother) and as long as it fits, doesn’t itch and isn’t even remotely metrosexual, we’re good. I know that someday I will be the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for. I tested it out with a few potential choices, and have been an excellent pretend MIL, generous, non-judgmental and fashionably informed. I also have a stellar reputation as a shopping companion; nothing makes me happier than helping others spend their money and make superior wardrobe decisions, all done with complete honesty and plenty of laughs. I have references if you don’t believe me, I make shopping fun.

My family used to joke that shopping was my hobby, and maybe that’s just a little bit true, but I’m not ashamed anymore. As defined by Webster, a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation. Guess that shoe fits, put it on my debit card and I’ll take it home. See you at the mall.

The Home Stretch

Here I am, exactly 2 months to the day of my fiftieth birthday, so I figured maybe I would check in and say "Hi." I guess this is the proverbial "home stretch." Funny thing, I always thought that was a baseball term, relating to the run from third base to home plate, wrong (of all my limited sports knowledge, baseball is the lowest on the list). Upon further review, the term specifically refers to the final portion of a race track, from the last turn to the finish line. Informally it has come to mean the final stages of an undertaking, one web definition even explaining it as the last part of something, like a journey or a project.  Guess I'm approaching the final turn, in the home stretch to 50.

I set out last August 13th to share this year daily and publicly, and although I abandoned ship many times along the way, I have come to realize my absences were a necessary part of the process. I've been writing in my head all along, but those entries were just for me. Silent discussions that would have mostly bored you or exposed parts of myself that I've decided are better left unsaid. The last few months have been more introspective than usual, probably too much alone time than is good for me, and more than likely temporarily disconnected me from the people who I love and who love me most. Granted the almost nightly hour long walks were good for my body, but maybe not as good for my family. They helped me sleep better but left more laundry in the basket than the drawers. I enjoyed almost all of those walks with Boola, something I didn't do the first 12 years of her life, and hopefully a happy memory she took with her when we said goodbye a few weeks ago. I didn't blog about the end of her life, my 13 year old golden retriever, whose death hit me so much harder than I could have imagined.  I am not a dog person, in comparison to my friends who really love their dogs like children. I didn't grow up that way; my childhood dogs (Muffin and Bridget) always seemed to be part of the package of suburban life, but never really a part of the family. I have no memory of them coming into or leaving my life. They were just there and then not; I can't explain it any other way. Boola came into our life shortly after my Dad died (thus her name, Boola, a nod to his beloved Yale, and a little inside joke because he was the original non-dog lover) and although I still can't say that I loved her like a child, she was a member of the family for the hardest years of my life. The sadness in losing her was undoubtedly wrapped up in all we had been through while she was here; letting go of those memories a bit and acknowledging how much had changed in the 13 years she was around. I was 36 years old when we she arrived and the day we said goodbye was a heart-wrenching, slow motion replay of all she had witnessed in her lifetime. Her presence was practically the only constant of those years, everything else in a seemingly relentless flux. Enough said about that for now, can't go down that road again. We are still sorting out what our next four-legged friend will be; we have agreed on a large breed, preferably short-haired (still finding tumbleweeds of long blonde hair ) and an activity level more suited to our soon to be empty nester lifestyle.  I think I'll go for a boy dog this time, and already picked a name, Eli, continuing the slightly irreverent “Yalie” reference for my father. My friends and family are relieved that I have retreated from my bull mastiff fascination (especially the Cane Corso variety) and that I have vetoed Jeffrey's desire for a German shepherd or a Rottweiler.  I'm sure we'll make a decision before I turn 50, so stay tuned....

In the months since we last spoke David graduated from college, a perfect weekend with family and friends that ended with Mother’s Day with all 3 boys and my mom; couldn’t have asked for more. So what precipitated this blog, other than my noticing that today is the 13^th of June and 60 short days from THE day? I’ve covered lots of topics in the last 10 months, some funny (hopefully) and some serious, and some inspired by my children. It got to be a little inside joke in our house, something happens and I get the “is that gonna be in the blog?” query. For a while most stories found their way to the page, but countless others did not. Andrew felt a bit slighted that David’s wisdom teeth were blog-worthy and his own extraction just two weeks later did not warrant a post. Sorry Andrew, but I just wasn’t feeling the need to share the second time around. Andrew had his solo blog moment at the DMV and many honorable mentions along the way. But today, he inspired me and humbled me.

I arrived home from work and noticed a typed paper casually sitting on top of his backpack. It was obviously graded; I could see the teacher comments in the margins. I was also pretty sure that he did not leave it there intentionally for me to pick up and read, but I’m a mom so that’s what I did. Let me back track a bit and let you know that this is not a child that requires any prodding to do his homework and he has barely given me an instant of angst in his entire academic life. I rarely get to see his work anymore and most of it is well beyond my skill level anyway. I did spend many nights in the past year correcting his practice SAT tests (yes, he did them nightly and yes, it was worth the effort) and although I was only required to correct his answer sheet I was pretty amazed by his nearly perfect responses. On more than one occasion I secretly wondered if he was taking a peek at the back of the book, but I knew better. Back to the paper … Of course I flip immediately to the last page to see the grade (come on, you would too) and see the A++, along with some pretty heady comments from a notoriously grade stingy Professor (he does have a PhD) of 21^st Century Literature. I knew that he was a good writer (he is my son, and his skill set is enhanced with much better grammar), but what could have inspired this glowing praise? And then I sat down and read it, twice, maybe three times, partially because I was trying to absorb every word and partially because I kept tearing up. It wasn’t sad, actually clever and funny at times. I cried because it suddenly occurred to me that this paper wasn’t written by my baby. It was the work of my 16 year old son, who somehow in the blink of an eye became a young man with a mind and an intellect that took my breath away. Somewhere in between the countless hours of PS3 and Facebook and ESPN he really learned a few things. Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was smart and a good student and all the stuff we see on the surface, but this was more, this was understanding and reason and maturity. When Andrew got home from work I told him how amazing it was and he beamed with pride, “Mom, Dr. Shivers does not give A++’s. “Well Andrew, I guess he thought you deserved it, maybe he just never got a paper like that before.”. His response “Is this going to be a blog post?" For Andrew, I came back to the keyboard. There are always the predictable moments of parental pride, but this one caught me off guard. How did I not know that this was inside of him and when did he get so much smarter than me? I guess that’s what we all hope for with our children, taller and smarter. Now we’re three for three in both categories. Apparently, my work is done.

I have to say this was kind of fun, the words flowing pretty freely tonight. Not sure when you’ll hear from me again, but I’m going to make an effort to chronicle these last 60 days on a more consistent basis. There are still a few stories that I didn’t share along the way and I do miss the daily rush of a post. I hope some of you are still out there as I enter the last turn, 50 is starting to feel pretty good.