In order to be a smart ass, first you must be smart

I'm fairly confident I can pinpoint the place in time in my life where I made a conscious decision to be more mindful of how I treat the world around me and those I encounter in my day-to-day existence.

Now, I don't mean to say I was a bad person before this decision.  Andy and Ellie raised me better than that.  They raised all of us to be better than that.  But I can also admit to the world (or at least the part of said world that reads this) that I haven't always been the kind of person I'd like to be.  Even after I became more mindful of it.

Hey, I'm a work in progress, I'll admit it.

What was the root cause of my desire to be a better person?

The day that this once little boy entered my life -

I don't remember how old he is here, eighteen months or so, and he's giving Papa a goodnight kiss while on a sleepover at our house.  Btw, no snark on Papa's hair or the hair color please.  Just sayin...  This is one of my favorite pictures of the Heir to the Throne and certainly my favorite of the two of us.

No offense to the generation that separates us, but I don't remember feeling the need to be more aware of who I was and what I stood for when they were little.  But when this face -

came along I found a feeling that, I don't know, maybe drew my own mortality into focus.  And I just knew I needed to try and make a better, safer world for him and for those that would follow him.

Wow, that took a turn I didn't really see coming.  This is all way too heavy for a Saturday morning, right?

I tried to impart some grandfatherly advice when he hit his teens but I'm afraid it turned out with kind of a fortune cookieish quality to it.

And so young man, there are so many things I want to tell you, so many things I want to share here for the world (more or less) to see as I try and express my feelings and wishes for you.

Here goes...

Let's start with the title for this post.  And a quick disclaimer.  Just because I used that word doesn't mean you're allowed to use it around me or any other adult yet.  Nice try.  But the title is, imho, accurate.  So pay attention to the world around you and the events that shape it.

Now that I've got that out of the way.  Let me tell you this.  You're the best baseball player this family has produced.  Without question.

But having said that, let me also say that particular bar was never very high.  I was a pretty terrible Little Leaguer.  Your uncle was a little better than me.  And as softball players go, your Mom fit right into the family profile.  She is, after all, the one you got your "blazing" speed from... just like she got hers from me.

Sorry.

Baseball gets a bad rap, in my opinion, from many people.  "It's boring" "bunch of overpaid whiners" and so many more knocks on such a beautiful game.  Let me tell you something.  And you may not appreciate the truth in this for a while.  A long while.  Baseball transcends generations.  It is essentially the same as it was a hundred years ago.  "Field of Dreams" expressed that beautifully, and many other movies have drawn from the romanticism of the game.

The love of baseball is a common bond you and I share that no one and no thing can ever take from us.  Even if you never play another game.  Forty years from now, as you approach the age I'm at now, you'll see something; some common, ordinary, everyday, thing that will remind you of a time in your youth when life was so much simpler.  Appreciate the beauty of the moment.  As you get older, life tends to get more hectic, there's not much you can do about that.  Looking back on fond memories with family and friends can help you refocus on what is most important to you, whatever it may be.

The decisions you make moving forward are yours and yours alone to make.  Think them through carefully, there are few small ones.  And sometimes those that seem the most inconsequential will have the loudest repercussions.  Sometimes life-changing.

I'll explain that one to you later.

I'll always be there for you pal.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

Peace

Ten Years Gone

This is not a new song, it's from Physical Graffiti, an album that came out in the mid 70's.  But, as happens from time to time, random songs pop in to my head.  This time though, I don't think it's quite so random.  I don't know why, but a couple days ago the song appeared in my brain.  Probably because I had been thinking about the the time, ten years ago, leading up to this date.  I started thinking about the lyrics and, while they're not a perfect fit, they sum up nicely what it's been like.  As I wrote a couple weeks ago, this month contains some memorable days both good and bad.

Today is the first of each.  Even though yesterday we celebrated the first birthday for the little Diamond (shown here with her "smash" cake) today is her actual birthday.

 

This one is actually fairly early on in the "smash" process.  Shortly after I took the picture I had to walk away for a couple minutes and regain my composure.  

Because today is also ten years since Diane died.  As I stood in the driveway (smash cakes should be an outside event whenever possible, for obvious reasons) I couldn't help but reflect on how spoiled the grandkids would be had Diane and Caitlin been here.   I could clearly imagine Diane beaming, could almost hear her laugh, as she watched this little gem destroy her own personal chocolate cake.  I thought of something the Oldest One posted about Caitlin referring to the Heir to the Throne as "her" baby when he was an infant and transferred all those feelings in to yesterday.  And to every single event involving each of the grandkids for the last ten years.  Today too.  So, feeling the emotions get the best of me, I chose to walk away rather than allow my sadness to intrude on a day of joy.  

Removing myself like that probably isn't the healthiest way to deal with grief, I recognize that.  But, at this point in my life it rarely lasts more than a few moments.  Whether that's a function of a normal grief life-cycle now or me willing it away I don't know.  But it's been a long time since it brought me, quite literally, to my knees.  

Time has a way of marching on at it's own pace.  Despite our best efforts to change it.  In that respect not much is different since we marked a decade without Caitlin.  In my humble opinion, grief marches at it's own pace too.  At least it should if we allow it to.  

That's a lot easier to do after ten years though.  I read something recently by Patton Oswalt about the sudden passing of his own wife.  He wrote about how, after doing something for 102 consecutive days, you should become quite good at it.  And yet, 102 days after his wife's death, he felt no better about any of it.  It was really well done, quite profound and right. on. point.  If I can figure out how to link it here, I will.   Done.  Give it a look.  But as I was saying, grief needs to move at it's own pace.  I've mentioned here before about how making it through the first year is all well and good, but that the "seconds" will hit you hard if you're not aware of them.  I feel like that's one of my missions in life now, to spread that information around to people that may find it useful. 

It's taken me a lot longer to get to where I am now than I thought it would.  Literally.  I started this post this morning at the coffeehouse, but I wanted a picture or two that I only have on my home computer.  

And, I took a side trip to the cemetery.  It seemed like the thing to do.  I took Diane a rose, "talked" to her for a little bit, and headed back home.  I used to to do that a lot more often (I promise, no more links today) but the last time I was there was, I think, last fall when the Boy Child and I took the grave blankets there.  

I don't really have a feel for how I want to wrap this up so I think I'm going to default to one of the aforementioned photos 

Ok, one last thought from the cemetery.  When we picked out the headstone I had a verse inscribed on the back.  I don't remember where I heard it originally, I've searched the interwebz a few times looking for it (most recently about thirty seconds ago) but can't find it's origin so I can't give props.  But, to paraphrase it -

Know the gift you have been given.  And realize the gift has not been taken from you, only the wrapper.  For once you have been given the gift, it can not be taken away.  

Maybe it can help someone else.  I know it helped me.  So did believing that these two were together again.

Peace

August is the cruelest month.

With apologies to T.S. Eliot, I really don't know what to make of August.

The current month, over the course of my life (specifically the last 21 years) has brought towering joy and crippling pain.  Probably everything in between too, but me being what (who?) I am, these are the markers I follow.

August of 1995 was not easy.  Dad passed away on the 31st.  His last several months had not been easy for him.  He had COPD, a heart attack about ten years earlier had weakened him too.  That in itself wasn't easy for me to accept, in retrospect.  Here was a man that, although I stood about six inches taller than and outweighed by close to thirty pounds, I never doubted could kick my ass if he chose to.  Not that he ever exhibited that temperament though.  Dad was (still is) the most laid-back, even-tempered person I've ever known.  And that's made all the more remarkable by being married to Mom for 52 years, lol.  To say nothing of my siblings and I.

Well, them at least.

I never gave them any trouble...

Ahem.

So to watch Dad in this condition, to see him, in his last weeks, confined to a hospital bed after a devastating stroke, was something so foreign to me, well all of us really, but since I'm the one writing this, you know.  One of my most lasting impressions, one that comes fresh to my mind every time I let my (now) greying beard go for three or four days between shaves, is of Dad, unable to do that for himself.  He asked me if I could shave him.  Of course I did, gladly.

I also remember Dad's cardiologist, after the stroke had left him unable to speak clearly, which frustrated him to no end, commenting on how Dad was an angry old man.  Never in my life did I want to punch someone as much as I did this doctor.  I refuse to capitalize those words btw.  I don't know where he's practicing now.  He was pretty young so I'm sure he's still in practice.  Hopefully he's learned some bedside manners.

My most lasting impression of that time though, is that Dad wouldn't let Mom call for the ambulance if I was at work.  He'd tell her "Wait.  Joe will be home tomorrow.  You can call then."  That happened four or five times his last year.  The first couple times I was able to function as his paramedic as well as his son.  After that, I couldn't do both.  I had to be his son and let the crew perform what needed to be done for him.  That was a difficult reality to come to grips with.

Let's move ahead now to August of 2000.  And the birth of the Heir to the Throne.  What an amazing moment.  My first grandchild.  He was perfect in every way.

Now?

Wellllllllll...

The truth of the matter is he really is a pretty great kid and I count him among my blessings every single day of my life.  He's growing into a fine young man and I couldn't possibly be more proud of him than I am.    I remember how thrilled Diane was to go in to the delivery room with the Oldest One.  And how she wasn't sure what to make of this whole "Grandma" thing she was experiencing.  She did kind of dig it though when people would tell her she looked too young to be a Grandma.  She also doted on the HttT every chance she could get, right up to the end.

Which, btw, came in August of 2006.

Diane picked him up one morning, the week before he was supposed to start Kindergarten.  We were going to keep him for a few days and just goof off.  Whatever he wanted to do, that was our plan.  Life, of course, got in the way as it usually does.

That afternoon we were playing in the pool we had in the back yard.  Diane got out, said she had some stuff to do in the house, so I got the HttT out of the pool and dried him off.  We went in to the house and Diane told me she'd experienced some discomfort in her chest while she was in the pool and again climbing the stairs.  She said she felt fine now but had never felt anything like that before.  We talked about the dozen different things it might be but agreed the smart thing to do was to get it checked out.  We called the Boy Child and asked him to come over and hang out with the HttT while we went to the ED.  I vaguely remember calling him a few hours later and telling him they were keeping her overnight and calling the Oldest One and making up a story about why we had to bail on our plans.  At that point Diane didn't want anyone to know what had happened.  At her request I didn't even call the Quiet Child to tell her any of this yet.

When I say the week spiraled downhill from there it doesn't begin to describe the next six days.  Let me just say that it ended with me, sitting cross-legged on the floor; in the bedroom at the house of one of my nieces; trying to explain to my five year-old grandson why the Nana that adored him, that he worshipped, was never coming home.  The memory often brings tears to my eyes, even today, ten years later.  It is the single most difficult thing I've ever had to do.

Fortunately, in time, August made a move toward redemption.  Last year my favorite gemstone joined the family.  The old saying goes- "Diamonds are a girls best friend" right?  Well, I may not be her bestie but my fifth grandchild and second granddaughter made her appearance to rave reviews.  She, like the Reigning Princess before her, had me wrapped around her little finger from the start.  Her personality is showing more and more each day and she cracks me up regularly.  The Boy Child and my favorite daughter-in-law (still working on an actual nome de plume for her) have become my go to Sophie sitters when I need to go out of town for a few days.  Both of the littles are great with Sophie, but my little Diamond squeals with glee every time she sees Sophie, even if only moments have passed since the last time she saw her.  Literally.  Almost "peekabooish" and it's hilarious.

She's also very watchful of Sophie's dietary intake as this photo clearly shows.

You can see how pleased she is that Sophie is eating.

As plans are finalized for celebrating the little Diamonds first birthday I fully realize that August, fickle beast that it is, is currently a happy place.  Time has taught me that it may only be temporary.  So, I think I have really only one last thing to say, and, while it's hardly an original thought, it's certainly one we should all heed.  Enjoy your commas.  No, that's not it, although I do enjoy them. 

Rather, it's enjoy the life you live.  We all have little to no control over it, so stress as little as possible and embrace the warm fuzzy moments when they present themselves.

Peace

One step at a time

Here's a thing about me.

I. Never. Read. Work. Email. From. Home.

Ever.

It's not that I don't care, mind you, although my care quotient is on the low (to put it mildly) side when I'm not at work.  Rather, at work I am, shall we say, a peon.  And I don't say that to denigrate myself, only that the vast majority of things that happen at work when I'm not there have no real effect on me.  I have little to no impact on their outcome for good or bad and in fact most are fait accompli by the time an email comes out.  Any union business comes to my personal email too, so...

Additionally, a lot of the email at work, since it's Village-wide and not FD specific, deals with things like ohhh if the color copier at Village Hall is functioning properly.

And I'm not even joking.  Granted that might be of value to those in VH, but to me, it ranks right around how many flies are circling a patty produced by a specific heifer on a particular farm on any given day in the life of a random farmer (rancher?) in Wyoming.

We good here?

Now, having said that, One of the first things I do after I've been off for a while is to check my work email.  Partly because I run a pool in my head of how many emails are waiting for me (I've never won btw) and partly because I want to see what, if anything happened while I was off.

Which brings me to yesterday.  As I was reading through the list (only 43 from July 9-21) I saw a notice about the passing of the Mother of a woman I know at VH.  I would say that even though we've known each other for 20+ years there has been very little interaction between us.  Acquaintance moreso than friend.  However, given my experience in such matters, I thought I would share something with her that was sent to me after Diane died.  I don't remember who I got it from, but I'm pretty sure it was from an online grief group I used to be a part of.  It's kind of a secular piece in that it doesn't mention a particular diety, yet refers to those waiting on the other side.  I like it a lot, I was able to relate to it and the image it conjured up was comforting to me.  So, when I get the chance to share it with someone I think may benefit from it, I do.  And, a couple hours later I got a very gracious reply from her, so I felt like I was somewhat helpful.  I remember from the group, Paul, from Georgia, told me "when I help you heal, I heal" and I believe that to be true.

Which brings me back to where I intended this thing to go right from the start.

Our home is for sale.

Had I been smart, I would've put it on the market in 2006, right after Diane died.  But at the time there was no way I was emotionally equipped to do that.  The wounds were so fresh, so raw, that I would've been a wreck leaving the house behind.  And not just mine, I think the kids would've felt a lot of angst over "losing" the house too.   And by the time I was emotionally equipped to try and sell it, the market had tanked and I was underwater on the house.  So I ended up with renters for the last (almost) 5 years.  

And that's a story for another day.

Now, a couple things...

A.) I don't want to turn this into a sales pitch for my house (see link to listing here) and...

B.) Now that I'm prepared to sell the house without inflicting serious harm to my psyche, I've spent considerable time reflecting on the events that were important to my life that took place there.  Or, at least, while I (we) lived there.

In no particular order-

Caitlin was killed six weeks after we moved in.

Diane died three years after we moved in.  

The Quiet Child was married there.

The Boy Child came home safely from Iraq there.

This happened there

The balloon story took place there. 

I've never told you the balloon story?

Ok, then...

The Heir to the Throne turned three years old about three months after Caitlin was killed.  Diane didn't want to not celebrate, even though none of us really felt like partying at the time.  But he wouldn't have understood so we forged on with his third birthday party.  Diane bought a dozen or so helium balloons and decorated the house.  I don't remember who all was there but we had a decent amount of family there.  And as I recall we all had a nice time marking his special day.  

At the end of the day, when the Oldest One told him it was time to go, she also told him they couldn't take all of the balloons with, there wasn't enough room in the car.  She said he should pick out two or three balloons and they would leave the rest at Nana and Papa's house.  

He looked at her, and with all the wisdom of a three year old, told her -

"Mommy, I want to send my balloons to Aunt Caitlin."

As you might imagine, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.  And it lasted throughout the whole procedure as we let them go, one at a time, up to Aunt Caitlin.  And it kept going for at least a little while after the balloons had all started on their way to her.  

I had a really hard time telling that story for a long time after without losing my shit and becoming a blubbering mass.  And, it was a long time after that my voice would still break as I told it.  But here, today, sitting in my local coffeehouse writing this, I'm good.

I've said it many times, here and IRL, grief takes it's own time.  

Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

Peace

The Genius of doing good, or, "Hair" he goes again.

I'm not even going to apologize for the terrible pun, so let's get that out of the way right up front.

If you know me IRL, you know where my hairline is located.  That is to say, roughly at the back of my neck.  This is (only slightly) by choice.  It dates back to 2007; the first, and only, year I participated in St. Baldrick's head shaving fundraiser.  A friend had a child fighting a brain tumor (she kicked it's butt btw) and it seemed to me to be kind of a fun way to help out.  I wore my hair pretty close-cropped anyway and, after all, it's only hair.  I kind of liked not having any gray hair afterwards and decided to keep the look.  This, to me, eliminated the desire to do it again, since I'd already proven I'd do it.

There were a couple ulterior motives for sticking with baldness.  Shortly before this all took place, I was in the middle of a phone conversation with the Boy Child.  He'd had a union-related question and wanted to pick my brain.  He was at work at the time.  After I answered his query I heard him relay the information to his coworkers, and this is a direct quote -

"Hey, my Old Man said..."

Old.  Man.

Ex frickin scuse me?

I had never, to my knowledge, been referred to in that way before.  It didn't sit well, as confirmed by the hoots and hollers I heard back through the phone after I yelled at the Boy Child over his choice of alias. Also around this time, the Quiet Child made a similar age-related disparaging comment to me.  Apparently I was already numbed to it since I'm blanking on the particular unintended venom thrown my way.

So, my head-shaving was not completely selfless, since I gained something from it too.  As I said, not having the (mustache excluded) gray (and btw, the mustache is NOT going anywhere) was ok (except for about a three-week long lapse in judgement in my mid-twenties, it's been with me since I was able to grow one) with me.

Moving right along...

I have, here, on occasion, taken my grandfatherly privilege to spout off about the littles.  Even the not-so-little anymore Heir to the Throne, but this time I'm tipping my hat to the Boy Genius.

Last night, for the 4th year in a row, the Boy Genius took part in his local St. Baldrick's head shaving event.  This is, and has always been, something he wanted to do without any external prodding.  He does it to help kids in need.  He's a pretty special kid, all bias aside.  To do this event every year he's been win school is, to me, a very cool thing, and he's helped his school raise a nice bit of money for a charity that, by these metrics, seems to do things the right way.

And that's important.  It's important to me, and it should be important to you too.  We all work hard for our money *pulls out soapbox, climbs up on top* and if, at the end of the week when we sit down to pay bills, we have a little extra to give to those less fortunate, we should be sure the money goes where we want to go and not to pad some CEO's personal bottom line.

There are numerous examples of where not to send your money, fire up your Google machine before you give.

*puts soapbox away*

So, I just want to go on record to tell my readers, both of you, how proud I am of this guy

For doing this 

Again.

In addition to raising progressives, it seems we're doing a pretty good job of raising thoughtful, caring, considerate human beings too.

I'm a pretty fortunate guy, don't you think?

Peace

Dates

 No, not the fruit.

And not the social meeting with another person either.

Instead, as I tend to do around here, I'm going to go off on a calendar date of some significance.

Yesterday's date to be exact.

The Heir to the Throne turned 15 yesterday.  15.  Yeesh.  I feel old(er).

All bias aside (not really, but it's my blog and I don't really care if I'm biased or not) he's a pretty special kid.  He's smart and smart-alecky.  He's proven to be a pretty amazing older cousin and he dotes on the younger ones, just as they adore him.  He's learning very well what it takes to suck up to me, even though he doesn't need to.  As I said when I referenced the Reigning Princess, he had me right from the start.  

He's had to deal with more grief, at a very young age, than anyone should ever have to deal with; losing first an aunt, then a grandma, then an uncle, then a great-grandmother, all before he hit his teens.  He's gone through life with the Boy Child and me as the primary male role models.   

Talk about an uphill battle...

Here's an example of why I think this kid is so special *pulls grandfatherly bragging platform out*

This past summer a tornado hit the small town a couple miles to the west of where he and the Oldest One live.  As did many others out that way, they went over to help in the aftermath; cleanup, organizing supplies that came in for the stricken, etc.  A week or so after the tornado hit, I called him to see if he wanted to go to the batting cages with me.  It's something we've been doing for the last several years.  He loves baseball, he's a pretty good player, and I enjoy helping him with his swing.  He didn't jump at the offer like he usually does, but said, sure he'd go with me.  I talked to the Oldest One a little later and she told me why he was hesitant.  

He wanted to go back over to help with the recovery some more.  

Rather than go goof off with me, he felt like it was more important to help his friends, team mates and classmates that had lost so much.

Who am I to say no to that?

I called him up and told him how very proud I was of him and told him to go help wherever he could, that doing that was so much more important than what we would do.  And I told him how very proud I was of him for being so selfless.  

See what I mean?

I saw a picture that he posted yesterday, I've seen it before but not in a while and I wanted to share it here, along with some of my other favs from over the years. 

Here he is with the Blond Child.

And here, his Nana.

And, finally, one with Sophie.

Lastly, as I try to wrap this thing up, there's a reason I wanted to do this today.  Aside from writing about a great kid, that is.  He posted something on his page yesterday and reading it broke my heart.  A classmate of the Heir's took his own life three days ago.

He was 14.

And the victim of bullying.

This needs to stop.  How did we get to this point in our collective history, where a 14 year-old feels so hated, so unloved and feels like life has given him (or her) such a raw deal that they feel they have no choice but to take their own life?  Or take the lives of others for that matter?  

We all know (or should know) the statistics, we've lost more veterans to suicide than we lost in combat in Iraq/Afghanistan.  Now, in my profession, we're learning similar statistics.  

I don't pretend to have any answers, though I wish I did.  I wish it was as easy as; be nice, be respectful, be considerate.  

But it's not.  

Or maybe it is?  Maybe that small thing, something we're all capable of doing, can help to make a difference.  I don't know.  

Every human life has value.  

And every one of us has demons.

Please don't let them get the best of you.  Please remember you are loved.  And please, if you know someone going through a hard time, for whatever reason, reach out to them and reassure them as best you can.

Peace

Heir To The Throne

As I'm sitting here contemplating which of two (I know, I know... but I didn't think anyone would mind if I took a week or so away from here) posts to write, it occurs to me that when I describe myself as a big baby when I don't feel well, I'm not exaggerating... like, not even a little.  I've spent the last few days with pain in the neck (literally) known as Strep Throat.  

I feel like the words "Strep Throat" should be accompanied by a fanfare of some sort after the way my butt got kicked.  Actually I'm not sure what the sound should be.  Probably not fanfare, but certainly the suspenseful movie music that let's you know something bad is about to happen (wordies, hook a brotha up will ya?)  I also feel like "WTF, little kids have this all the time, they're up and running in, like, two days".  

Me?  Not so much.  As I write this, I'm about to have my first cup of coffee in four days.

FOUR.  DAYS.

Nectar of the Gods, Buile Mo Chroi, how did I live without you?

OK, slight exaggeration perhaps, but still.  I don't remember the last time I went one day without let alone four.

You want another example?  A pan full of brownies sat on the counter since Saturday night, untouched by me.  

Brownies.

In my very own house.

Since Saturday.

I believe that to be unprecedented.

How unusual is this you might ask?

Each of the preceding images were randomly chosen from the many food pictures I have taken with my phone and these in particular represent lovely chocolate and/or cake based foods that were at least as delicious as they were appealing to look at.  

Brownies lasting that long around me is a huge deal, to say the least. Anyway.

Here's where I decided to start.  

The Heir to the Throne is 13.

Holy crap, how did that happen?  

I mean, I know HOW it happened, but how did it happen?  Good Lord it was just a few weeks ago the Oldest One brought him home.  It's funny, I remember carrying the Oldest One home.  I always will.  It was a very surreal moment for me, but I'll never forget holding this tiny little being up and touching a leaf to her hand and telling her what it was.  The rest of my parenting career may have spiraled out of control, but I nailed that first moment if I do say so myself. I stole that from a movie, btw, maybe Roots, I don't remember.  Like I've said before, I may not be the greatest writer on the planet, but I know when to plagiarize a great line.  

Quick side note... Free wifi is a wonderful thing, but to emphasize "there's no such thing as 'free'" let me just point out that the three teenage knuckleheads that just left my local Pacific northwest based coffee based beverage super-mega global conglomerate (still interested in endorsement opportunities btw) just left because they had found and successfully gotten on my last effing nerve in very short order. 

So yeah, the adorable little protester you see screen left is now a teenager.  Don't get me wrong, especially if any of the other progeny read this, of course I love them all the same and equally.  And yet... I don't think it's out of line to say I love that kid more than anyone else I share bloodlines with.   

OK, maybe not more.  But it's... different with the first.  And I'm not sure I can put that into words. 

And, as I sit here trying to craft the words to describe that sentiment, I'm getting flooded with memories.  Memories of each of them.  From the Oldest One on down through the Beatle Baby and all the ones that haven't gotten a nom de guerre from me yet.  And, while I'm not about to start spilling my guts on every cute/embarrassing/frustrating/endearing thing any of them have done, I don't think I'm out of line with the remarks.

It's different with the first.  Not necessarily better, though often it is.  The decisions are better researched and more safety based whereas each additional child gets proportionally less safety and more reality based decisions -

First child *Here sweetie, let Daddy clean that apple better
Second child *Rub that apple on your shirt, it'll shine right up
Third child *It's a small worm, you'll be fine

So yeah, it's safe to say I love all of my grandkids without fail and without question.  And it's also safe to say that, even if I got to see every one of them, every day of my life, that wouldn't be enough.  

So, the teenager (God that sounds weird) has started life as a 7th grader.  He'll be driving in three years,  Three.  That's for the Oldest One, in case you wondered... And then, three years after that, college.  But that's what happens with life.  It goes on.  

OK, before this whole thing spins into one hot mess, let me just say he's the sweetest, most thoughtful kid I know.  He cherishes those that are important to him and for having spent such short time on this planet, he's had to deal with a lot of loss.  More than most adults I know.  He's a great kid and his Mother has done a great job raising him.  

And if I could pass on some advice to him (I know, I can, I'm just using this as a vessel) I'll tell him to enjoy each and every day.  Enjoy his friends and his time with them.  Work hard.  But take time to play too. You need both.  Be safe, always, be safe.  And you can strike out without ever taking the bat off your shoulder, but you'll never get a hit that way.

Is that enough grandfatherly advice?  God I hope so because I suck at it, Yeesh.  

So, from the "apple doesn't fall far from the tree" department and to try and wrap this whole trainwreck together, last spring I took him to DC for spring break.  We did some sight-seeing, some touristy stuff and had a great time.  He even gave a reasonable answer to the question of what he liked best (Air and Space Museum), but when pressed for what he REALLY liked best about DC do you know what his answer was?

Ben's Chili Bowl

I love that kid.

I don't btw.

See every one of them every day, that is.

That's something I need to work on.