Happy Birthday to My First Born

I had a different post in mind for today, about linear programming and plotting a story.  But I'm waxing nolstalgic right now and I'm going to beg your indulgence.

Thirty nine years ago this morning I gave birth to a son. He was my first born and he was healthy and beautiful. He had wispy blond hair and big blue eyes. He’d been a breech birth so his head was not misshapen nor his face bruised. He was perfect.

As he got older, that whole perfect thing faded a bit.  I don't think it was a coincidence that my hair starting turning gray when he was a teenager. He never got in real trouble, but he certainly danced around the edges.  He pulled it together in college and was lucky enough to find a terrific young woman who was willing to put up with him.  (Okay, we sent her checks and begged her to take him.)
Together they produced two of my exceptional grandchildren.  

They live about an hour away, so I don't see him every day but he phones me often, just checking in or sharing something about the kids or maybe with a joke he's heard.  He always knows how to make me laugh.  (Come to think of it, that may be how he survived his teen years.)

I got to see him this weekend. Twice, in fact. At my granddaughter's play on Saturday and my grandson's lacrosse games on Sunday.  My son is the coach for the lacrosse team. He roamed the side lines, yelling instructions, no megaphone needed (it's a standing joke -my boy has great lungs).  And I watched him and thought about the man he has become.  A good man - successful in his career, devoted to his family, caring of his friends. Can I take credit?  Probably not.  But I remember that day, thirty nine years ago, and all the years that passed since then, and I look at him now.  And I'm really damn proud.

Happy Birthday, Greg.


My current word count: 31,131

I'm currently enjoying: Just finished Treachery in Death by JD Robb

Groaner of the day: When the driver of a huge trailer lost control of his rig, he plowed into an empty tollbooth and smashed it to pieces. He climbed down from the wreckage and within a matter of minutes, a truck pulled up and discharged a crew of workers. The men picked up each broken piece of the former tollbooth and spread some kind of creamy substance on it. Then they began fitting the pieces together. In less than a half hour, they had the entire tollbooth reconstructed and looking good as new.

Astonishing!" the truck driver said to the crew chief. "What was the white stuff you used to get all the pieces together?"

The crew chief said, "Oh, that was tollgate booth paste."