Desmond is writing a novel about being grown up and having kids. It is really quite good, especially considering he is not even yet ten.
Absent from this story, though, is a mother.
Desmond doesn’t want to get married. He is not interested in girls. In fact, he invented a name for them: pinker-stinkers. Apparently that’s what the boys now call the girls at school. Lovely.
I keep insisting to him that his distaste for girls will very likely change in the next few years, but I don’t think he believes me.
It might need to be a man-to-man talk with Daddy. In a year or so. I don’t know. It’s my first time parenting a tween.
Evan has a 16-year-old son. He might know something I don’t. And Sherry B, of course, has Gavin, who is only just 19.
Sometimes we forget, I think. We expect them to do the work of grown men. Operating heavy machinery, going into combat. They are just kids. 19 is still a kid. I know because I remember being 19 and I was a kid.
How did I get from Desmond writing a book to this? Wow…
Anyway, I think he shows great promise as a writer, just like I did. He has the potential to be a lot of things.
I’m so proud of him, both of his accomplishments and of the kind of person he is.
I know he doesn’t think highly of himself for some reason, but I do, and his Daddy does, and his sister, and grandparents, and teachers, and friends, and everyone who knows him.
To know him is to love him.
Since he was a tiny baby in nothing but his little tiny premie diaper, playing with his geometric rattle at only three weeks, I knew he was special.
I knew even before then, though. I knew the first time I looked into his big, beautiful blue eyes. That was the day he was born, when the nurse laid him on my chest and he looked right up at me. I knew he couldn’t actually see me, yet, but we’ve been connected from that very moment.
And we always will be, no matter what.