Mojo has a couple of friends, Mabel and Bosco, whose mere appearance casts shadows across whatever landscape you happen to find yourself in. Mojo is not exactly small in the world of canines; he’s about 75 pounds, give or take. You know he’s there. But Bosco is to Mojo what Mojo is to a cereal box. Bosco, and his mom Mabel, are great danes and they live next door under the same roof as their guardians, Brian and Jan. I see Mabel and Bosco -- oftentimes referred to around these parts as “the ponies” -- at the beach every morning where the vastness of the shoreline can make even these behemoths seem average-sized. But, indoors, they can make your 2,000 square foot house seem like nothing more than a large efficiency in a flash. They fill the space, as they say.
This weekend, Lily and I became dog sitters for the ponies as both Brian and Jan had to be in Chicago for a funeral for Jan’s mom. When Brian asked me if we would take in the big galoots, I didn’t hesitate. I knew they got along famously with Mojo, and I knew this would help out Brian and Jan. The plan was for Bosco and Mabel to stay at their home with me coming over to feed them, walk them, and take them to the beach in the mornings. For a day that worked. While Lily joined me in our early morning beach outing, and was a huge help, I still felt like it would have been helpful to have a third eye and, perhaps, a third arm. Bosco has a tendency to want to explore the rear regions of the deep beach, while Mabel actively seeks out both other dogs and the stray passer-by against whom she does her famous lean which can bowl you over if you don’t pay attention. All the while, Mojo is doing his frenetic “dance in the shallows” looking for minnows, or alternately, leaving tennis balls all over the place which he has passionately chased, but not so passionately returned. And, one of them is surely pooping somewhere during all this, and not always where it’s most convenient. Shepherding these three brutes to more or less head in the same direction is like the proverbial herding of cats. Very big cats. When you finally get them on leashes to get them home, the odds of your getting twisted into a pretzel are of a sort that even Vegas smiles on. So -- this is more than a one-person job, at least for me it is. But, day one, went swimmingly. A good time was had by all.
Day two, however, large and very noisy thunderstorms altered the landscape in more ways than one. Mabel fears thunderstorms the way you and I fear not being able to breathe, so when storms arrive (or even when they’re still in the distance), the poor girl goes into manic mode, drooling, tail curled downward, all the while seeking a safe haven. This is what happened this morning. In an effort to ease her stress, I cajoled her and Bosco -- who is fine with all this climatic drama -- to come over to our house where at least Mabel would have the comfort of human company.
As I write this, this is still a work in progress. What I can say is that Bosco and Mabel follow me around the house in a way that makes me feel like I’m being trailed by two small continents, one on either side. Mojo darts in and around the continents with a toy in his mouth seeking a playmate, two-legged or four -- it doesn’t matter. I feel the need for space.
Sunshine could really help here.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Adieu, Mon Ami
I hope I’m not alone in this. Tell me you don’t have a favorite t-shirt somewhere, or maybe a fleece, or an old pair of jeans, that has outlived its expiration date by, let’s say, 15 years. You know what I’m talking about. Clothing that’s so old it not only looks weathered, but it knows your history; it knows your secrets. It is almost holy in its rankings among your belongings. You put these garments in the laundry and you dearly hope they survive the spin cycle. Why you keep them is obvious. They feel great. They conform to your body in a way that reflects that they are practically human. They know you, right? So what if they are a bit torn, a bit weathered, a tad faded. They are your friends. They understand.
So, when it comes to parting with them you feel a sense of loss that is wholly out of touch with reality; totally out of line with “normal” expectations. They have become a part of you, and tossing them away is akin to tossing away a loved one, sort of. They deserve a fitting burial, no?
This tragic moment happened to me this weekend when I ever-so-reluctantly parted with a t-shirt I loved. It was one I picked up in New Zealand 14 years ago when we were traveling there with Jesse and Alex. It was a muted peach in color -- or at least it became muted after its 4,000th washing in 2003. Over time it became beatifically soft as only a bit of clothing that lasts so long can become. On its back it touted A.J. Hackett Bungee Jumping, an outfit that was responsible for Jesse’s leap into thin air at the tender age of 13 off the Kuwara Bridge outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. A leap that launched an adventurous and -- some would say -- fearless attitude toward life that has suited him well over the past decade. Some would say too well, but that’s another story.
And so, when I realized that its threadbare leavings were not up to yet another spin cycle, I made the terrible judgment that its expiration date -- long overdue -- had actually arrived. Life support was no longer an option. The shirt was now semi-transparent and was deserving of a fitting adieu. I touched it with a sensitivity I likely had never before managed; the kind you would experience maybe with a loved one with whom it was time to say good-bye.
I will get over this, of course. But, don’t tell me there aren’t memories embedded in that t-shirt’s weave. Don’t tell me there isn’t something more important here than discarding your every day piece of trash. I won’t hear of it.
Treasure your old garments. They know you as few do.
So, when it comes to parting with them you feel a sense of loss that is wholly out of touch with reality; totally out of line with “normal” expectations. They have become a part of you, and tossing them away is akin to tossing away a loved one, sort of. They deserve a fitting burial, no?
This tragic moment happened to me this weekend when I ever-so-reluctantly parted with a t-shirt I loved. It was one I picked up in New Zealand 14 years ago when we were traveling there with Jesse and Alex. It was a muted peach in color -- or at least it became muted after its 4,000th washing in 2003. Over time it became beatifically soft as only a bit of clothing that lasts so long can become. On its back it touted A.J. Hackett Bungee Jumping, an outfit that was responsible for Jesse’s leap into thin air at the tender age of 13 off the Kuwara Bridge outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. A leap that launched an adventurous and -- some would say -- fearless attitude toward life that has suited him well over the past decade. Some would say too well, but that’s another story.
And so, when I realized that its threadbare leavings were not up to yet another spin cycle, I made the terrible judgment that its expiration date -- long overdue -- had actually arrived. Life support was no longer an option. The shirt was now semi-transparent and was deserving of a fitting adieu. I touched it with a sensitivity I likely had never before managed; the kind you would experience maybe with a loved one with whom it was time to say good-bye.
I will get over this, of course. But, don’t tell me there aren’t memories embedded in that t-shirt’s weave. Don’t tell me there isn’t something more important here than discarding your every day piece of trash. I won’t hear of it.
Treasure your old garments. They know you as few do.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Jailbreak
We reached the end of the wooden walkway that leads to the edge of the beach. I reached down and spoke softly to the patiently waiting Mojo. “Be careful out there” I whispered to him and then released the latch on his leash and sat back to watch his ecstasy. It was his first day unleashed since early April when he had knee surgery that would require more than three months of rehabilitation. From his ridiculous “Elizabethan” collar, to his underwater treadmill sessions, to his slow return to long walks, to his trots with me around Wild Dunes, his surgeon finally pronounced him ready to return to the scene of the crime, as it were. He was joined on that walkway by his long time compatriots, Bosco and Mabel, the great danes who live next door. Mabel, too, was excited to see her buddy again. In a flash, he was sprinting to the ocean, his home away from home.
If one can paint a picture of happiness, then this was a Rembrandt. Mojo flew to the water and began his eternal pursuit of minnows in the shallows. He fairly leaped vertically as he tried to pivot and intercept the elusive fish. His motions were akin to a frenetic, spastic dance to a music that has no rhythm, but which has a satanic beat. For a creature that has only two goals in his life -- to catch a squirrel and to catch a minnow -- this was serious, if joyous, business. I brought with me three tennis balls to keep him entertained, but they were wholly unnecessary. The minnows, or, more accurately, the promise of minnows was all he needed. Even his other compatriots, Lucy the boxer, Betsy the goldendoodle, Sandy, the miniature something, and other assorted labs were most surely a distraction, but they were only a diversion from the main event. Center stage was reserved for the ocean.
The fly in this ointment is the knowledge that Mojo will be facing more knee surgery in his near future, this time on his right leg. The surgeon told me it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question as to when the other shoe would drop, so to speak. Lily and I held our collective breath as we watched Mojo sprint to the ocean wondering if he’d pull up lame and face a maddeningly hasty return to being under house arrest. In a way, we were already preparing ourselves for this. But, this was of no interest to Mojo who cared only that he could dive through some waves, lie in the shallows, and chase those infernal minnows. Today all went well.
This is how you spell happiness.
If one can paint a picture of happiness, then this was a Rembrandt. Mojo flew to the water and began his eternal pursuit of minnows in the shallows. He fairly leaped vertically as he tried to pivot and intercept the elusive fish. His motions were akin to a frenetic, spastic dance to a music that has no rhythm, but which has a satanic beat. For a creature that has only two goals in his life -- to catch a squirrel and to catch a minnow -- this was serious, if joyous, business. I brought with me three tennis balls to keep him entertained, but they were wholly unnecessary. The minnows, or, more accurately, the promise of minnows was all he needed. Even his other compatriots, Lucy the boxer, Betsy the goldendoodle, Sandy, the miniature something, and other assorted labs were most surely a distraction, but they were only a diversion from the main event. Center stage was reserved for the ocean.
The fly in this ointment is the knowledge that Mojo will be facing more knee surgery in his near future, this time on his right leg. The surgeon told me it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question as to when the other shoe would drop, so to speak. Lily and I held our collective breath as we watched Mojo sprint to the ocean wondering if he’d pull up lame and face a maddeningly hasty return to being under house arrest. In a way, we were already preparing ourselves for this. But, this was of no interest to Mojo who cared only that he could dive through some waves, lie in the shallows, and chase those infernal minnows. Today all went well.
This is how you spell happiness.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
"Will you still need me, will you still feed me......."
Back in the mid-60s when Paul McCartney wrote “When I’m 64,” I barely gave it a thought. It was a nice enough song, but one that definitely took a back seat to a host of other Beatles tunes and, for that matter, almost every other piece of music from that fabulous era. If I had given the thoughts behind this song even a nanosecond of my attention, I would have shrugged and concluded, “that’s for other folks.” And, of course, that would have been right…...in 1966. But, we’re not in 1966 anymore, are we? It’s 44 years later and now its lyrics and sentiments resonate a bit more personally than they did back then. Why? Because today I turn 64; that’s why.
Mostly, as we age, we become avid devotees of the “denial” approach to problem resolution as we still, despite all obvious indications, try to siphon off our latent fears that things are most certainly going downhill. What we hear is such tripe as, “60 is the new 40” and so on. Well, I hate to tell you, but 60 is still 60, and 64 is still 64, and until the human species can reliably extend life well into the hundreds, we are marching, unrelentingly, to our expiration dates.
Do I take solace that I can still run 6 miles or swim 60 laps? Of course. Do I try to tell myself that my parents were not remotely in the same shape I am for this age, and that bodes well for me? For sure. Am I convinced by all that? Sometimes… as when I indulge in one of my flights of denial and delude myself into thinking it so. Maybe it’s a pattern for baby boomers who have never taken well to notions that they are not special or cutting edge. We are immortal, no?
I do have to say that the image conjured up by Mr. McCartney of the person who is 64 is of someone who, in my own mind, is hopelessly infirm and tottering on helplessness. I know I don’t feel that way and look forward to many more adventures before I pack it in. But, I would be lying if I said that turning 64 isn’t a dour reminder of something I don’t want to confront. Am I drooling yet? No. Am I googling nursing homes? Hell no. But, there’s something so arbitrary about a number. Is 64 so wildly different than 63? Of course not. Damn you, Paul, for making me think it is.
Nap time anyone?
Mostly, as we age, we become avid devotees of the “denial” approach to problem resolution as we still, despite all obvious indications, try to siphon off our latent fears that things are most certainly going downhill. What we hear is such tripe as, “60 is the new 40” and so on. Well, I hate to tell you, but 60 is still 60, and 64 is still 64, and until the human species can reliably extend life well into the hundreds, we are marching, unrelentingly, to our expiration dates.
Do I take solace that I can still run 6 miles or swim 60 laps? Of course. Do I try to tell myself that my parents were not remotely in the same shape I am for this age, and that bodes well for me? For sure. Am I convinced by all that? Sometimes… as when I indulge in one of my flights of denial and delude myself into thinking it so. Maybe it’s a pattern for baby boomers who have never taken well to notions that they are not special or cutting edge. We are immortal, no?
I do have to say that the image conjured up by Mr. McCartney of the person who is 64 is of someone who, in my own mind, is hopelessly infirm and tottering on helplessness. I know I don’t feel that way and look forward to many more adventures before I pack it in. But, I would be lying if I said that turning 64 isn’t a dour reminder of something I don’t want to confront. Am I drooling yet? No. Am I googling nursing homes? Hell no. But, there’s something so arbitrary about a number. Is 64 so wildly different than 63? Of course not. Damn you, Paul, for making me think it is.
Nap time anyone?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mojo's Knees, Redux
When we first got the news that Mojo -- at the delicate age of maybe a year and a half -- needed surgery for a bum knee, we knew we were in for a tough slog. We were told it would take on the order of 3 months until his body could heal and he could fly free of his leash once again. Like in all things canine, it’s tough to explain to the guy that this too shall pass; that his goofy Elizabethan collar would be temporary; that our joyful forays of chasing one another around the house must be put on hold; and that his weeks long rehab might be fun, sort of. We followed the script and kept him under a proverbial lock and key -- indeed, virtual house arrest -- for the past 2 months. I kept telling the folks, who had become accustomed to seeing Mojo and me in the early morning hours on the beach, that his re-appearance was almost imminent and that I would bring a bottle of champagne to the beach in mid-July to celebrate his rediscovered freedom.
All that was until the other day when I brought Mojo back for some scheduled post-surgery x-rays. The surgeon matter-of-factly advised me that while Mojo’s recovery from the surgery was going swimmingly well, Mojo’s other rear knee was in need of repair as well. He showed me the x-ray and tried to point out in detail the growing fluid on the bad knee and the loss of muscle mass there. To the surgeon, it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question. He opined that the final tearing of the tendon could be in 6 weeks or 6 months, but it was coming as surely as next winter. In a flash, “deflating” had a new poster child. My mind had already been on a schedule that would envision a return to the beach for the rest of Mojo’s life in a matter of weeks. We could get through this unfortunate delay knowing the finish line was looming. Hearing that any such prison break would be, at best, temporary, forced my brain to entertain a mid-course correction of my expectations. It could be done because it has to be done, but I think it’s going to take a while to sell me on it.
And, this does not begin to confront the issue of cost, which, as they say, ain’t chicken feed. As I became fond of telling folks, it’s not as if Blue Cross covers these procedures. I suspect they wouldn’t look too kindly on a bill submission for MCL surgery for a four-legged dependent.
I am taking some comfort -- perhaps as a delusion -- that the angst here is all mine and not Mojo’s. I try to think that dogs don’t appreciate the passage of time -- more specifically, the painfully slow passing of it -- as humans do. They truly live in an “it is what it is” world. Right? I’m clinging some to the notion that notwithstanding the physical discomfort and a replay of the slow rehab process, Mojo is not thinking, as I am, “when the hell can we get back to the beach?” I want to be right about this.
Maybe I’ll age that bottle of champagne a bit more.
All that was until the other day when I brought Mojo back for some scheduled post-surgery x-rays. The surgeon matter-of-factly advised me that while Mojo’s recovery from the surgery was going swimmingly well, Mojo’s other rear knee was in need of repair as well. He showed me the x-ray and tried to point out in detail the growing fluid on the bad knee and the loss of muscle mass there. To the surgeon, it was not an “if” question, but a “when” question. He opined that the final tearing of the tendon could be in 6 weeks or 6 months, but it was coming as surely as next winter. In a flash, “deflating” had a new poster child. My mind had already been on a schedule that would envision a return to the beach for the rest of Mojo’s life in a matter of weeks. We could get through this unfortunate delay knowing the finish line was looming. Hearing that any such prison break would be, at best, temporary, forced my brain to entertain a mid-course correction of my expectations. It could be done because it has to be done, but I think it’s going to take a while to sell me on it.
And, this does not begin to confront the issue of cost, which, as they say, ain’t chicken feed. As I became fond of telling folks, it’s not as if Blue Cross covers these procedures. I suspect they wouldn’t look too kindly on a bill submission for MCL surgery for a four-legged dependent.
I am taking some comfort -- perhaps as a delusion -- that the angst here is all mine and not Mojo’s. I try to think that dogs don’t appreciate the passage of time -- more specifically, the painfully slow passing of it -- as humans do. They truly live in an “it is what it is” world. Right? I’m clinging some to the notion that notwithstanding the physical discomfort and a replay of the slow rehab process, Mojo is not thinking, as I am, “when the hell can we get back to the beach?” I want to be right about this.
Maybe I’ll age that bottle of champagne a bit more.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
It's Free (Sort Of)
I promised myself I would never do this. Never, ever, ever. For as long as I can remember, I always tossed them out when they came intruding into my mailbox. You know -- those ever so superficially alluring promos from mostly real estate interests of one type or another promising free this or free that if all you would do is come on down and listen to a little spiel about their product. We know, and they know (and they know that we know) that this is a little scam to pry loose thousands of dollars from us all in the name of an “enhanced vacation experience.” I always said to myself, what dummy would actually fall for this thinly veiled mockery?
Well, apparently, I am more of a dummy than I gave myself credit for, or, at least I’ve become one since retiring. So, what happened here? I saw the envelope in the mail: a promise of a free cruise. Even knowing what this was about, I was feeling a bit mischievous and curious, and decided to call the folks just to see what it was like to speak to the devil. The nice lady at the other end of the line asked me only to come to their office in Charleston with Lily (and proper identification, please) where we could pick up our free cruise voucher after a “brief” encounter with company “representatives” who would merely introduce us to a wonderful new product before the voucher could be issued. I laughed and agreed. When I told Lily about this, I told her it would be a hoot to do this and she could count on me to nap through what I figured would be a cutesy video presentation. I encouraged her to bring something to read.
I had no idea what I was talking about. Zero. After being introduced to our personal representative, Shannon, whose job no doubt was to soften the first lines of our resistance, we were ushered in to a large room. Here, the subzero climate they maintained was not the primary distraction only because Mike was. In rolled this large sized man with a voice that knew no volume control. I could be wrong about this, but I think Mike’s last name was Megaphone. And, Lily and I were sitting in the front row within spitting distance of the mammoth air conditioning vent that was actively trying to single-handedly create the new ice age. I felt as if our hair was being bent backwards by the force of the sonic waves coming from Mike’s mouth. With Mike finding it to be presumably an effective selling technique by making his presentation interactive, it sealed the deal that there would be no napping or casual reading while he held us hostage.
As Mike and the air conditioning terrorized us, we were showered -- no, make that inundated -- with facts and figures that made it all sound as if this real estate “time share-like” proposal was indisputably a deal that only an idiot could decline. We’d save thousands, and over the 40 year plan that was on the table we would travel the world for pennies. How could you lose? Although I was wearing a t-shirt, I felt as if I were wearing a shirt and tie that were three sizes too small. I felt that somehow they had managed to artificially increase the air pressure in there far beyond normal bounds. Indeed, the fabulous relentlessness of Mike’s performance, made me feel like I was in the middle of the original Terminator with Arnold Schwarzenegger ruthlessly pursuing me with absolutely no chance for denial or reprieve. Or mercy. I felt some compassion for those facing what they euphemistically call “aggressive questioning” by law enforcement or the military. My head was swimming. I felt hunted.
Almost two hours later, Lily and I managed to fend off Mike and Shannon’s final stabs at our vulnerability and, almost begrudgingly, we were issued our voucher for a free cruise out of Charleston to points South . We were so stressed out, we couldn’t wait to get back home, grab two beach chairs, Mojo, and the largest rum drink I’ve had since my junior year in college. We headed to the beach to watch the last rays of the sun... and decompress.
The funny thing here -- lost in all the combat sequences we had just survived -- was that Lily and I have never thought of ourselves as cruise candidates. Just not our style. Our sense of it is that it’s a place for spandex, coiffed hair and garishly mismatched deck wear. And, of course, a non-stop eating experience where food is available in every nook and cranny of this floating refrigerator.
But we’re going alright. This is our only way to finally defeat Ahhnold.
Well, apparently, I am more of a dummy than I gave myself credit for, or, at least I’ve become one since retiring. So, what happened here? I saw the envelope in the mail: a promise of a free cruise. Even knowing what this was about, I was feeling a bit mischievous and curious, and decided to call the folks just to see what it was like to speak to the devil. The nice lady at the other end of the line asked me only to come to their office in Charleston with Lily (and proper identification, please) where we could pick up our free cruise voucher after a “brief” encounter with company “representatives” who would merely introduce us to a wonderful new product before the voucher could be issued. I laughed and agreed. When I told Lily about this, I told her it would be a hoot to do this and she could count on me to nap through what I figured would be a cutesy video presentation. I encouraged her to bring something to read.
I had no idea what I was talking about. Zero. After being introduced to our personal representative, Shannon, whose job no doubt was to soften the first lines of our resistance, we were ushered in to a large room. Here, the subzero climate they maintained was not the primary distraction only because Mike was. In rolled this large sized man with a voice that knew no volume control. I could be wrong about this, but I think Mike’s last name was Megaphone. And, Lily and I were sitting in the front row within spitting distance of the mammoth air conditioning vent that was actively trying to single-handedly create the new ice age. I felt as if our hair was being bent backwards by the force of the sonic waves coming from Mike’s mouth. With Mike finding it to be presumably an effective selling technique by making his presentation interactive, it sealed the deal that there would be no napping or casual reading while he held us hostage.
As Mike and the air conditioning terrorized us, we were showered -- no, make that inundated -- with facts and figures that made it all sound as if this real estate “time share-like” proposal was indisputably a deal that only an idiot could decline. We’d save thousands, and over the 40 year plan that was on the table we would travel the world for pennies. How could you lose? Although I was wearing a t-shirt, I felt as if I were wearing a shirt and tie that were three sizes too small. I felt that somehow they had managed to artificially increase the air pressure in there far beyond normal bounds. Indeed, the fabulous relentlessness of Mike’s performance, made me feel like I was in the middle of the original Terminator with Arnold Schwarzenegger ruthlessly pursuing me with absolutely no chance for denial or reprieve. Or mercy. I felt some compassion for those facing what they euphemistically call “aggressive questioning” by law enforcement or the military. My head was swimming. I felt hunted.
Almost two hours later, Lily and I managed to fend off Mike and Shannon’s final stabs at our vulnerability and, almost begrudgingly, we were issued our voucher for a free cruise out of Charleston to points South . We were so stressed out, we couldn’t wait to get back home, grab two beach chairs, Mojo, and the largest rum drink I’ve had since my junior year in college. We headed to the beach to watch the last rays of the sun... and decompress.
The funny thing here -- lost in all the combat sequences we had just survived -- was that Lily and I have never thought of ourselves as cruise candidates. Just not our style. Our sense of it is that it’s a place for spandex, coiffed hair and garishly mismatched deck wear. And, of course, a non-stop eating experience where food is available in every nook and cranny of this floating refrigerator.
But we’re going alright. This is our only way to finally defeat Ahhnold.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Hello. Good-bye. Again
You know the time worn phrases: no grass grows under his feet; a rolling stone gathers no moss; he’s got ants in his pants; shpielkes (for those of you with Yiddish tendencies). The ultimate truth remains the same: They come and they go. And, so it is with Alex who left at dawn this morning for points West. San Diego, specifically. Here in a flash and gone the next moment. The rhythms of life, eh? In this case, Alex was gone for 15 months, traversing four continents and communicating mostly by email and skype except in those rare moments when we could actually catch up to him in person in those special passages of time overseas. We are no different than any other parent, really. We watch our children grow and take their own baby steps to achieve their dreams, and we watch from the sidelines like so many cheerleaders at an athletic event. But, we are mostly helpless. Children grow and leave, maybe to the next town, over the mountain or maybe to the next ocean. It’s all the same. In this case, Alex is off to pursue his dream of becoming a media mogul and can only watch its twisted path that leads who knows where. Lily and I certainly had no expectations of spending much time with Alex after his return from his 15 month, global odyssey; but, that doesn’t mean we weren’t choked up at his departure this morning. We helped him load his car, helped plan his itinerary West, made some sandwiches for him, gave him some traveling money, and then, poof(!) he was gone…again. At least now he would be within reach by phone. At least now he wouldn’t be off on some incredible third world jaunt unreachable by normal means. Small comfort.
Isn’t it just an extension of the time when you watch them take their first baby step and let go of their hand in that magical moment to see if they can do it on their own? I wonder if that visual image ever changes no matter how much time has elapsed and how accomplished they have become. This is new to me; I can offer myself no expert advice. We will watch, though. But not from a place where we can help dictate a result. He’s on his own now, this kid.
We’ll keep the light on for him.
Isn’t it just an extension of the time when you watch them take their first baby step and let go of their hand in that magical moment to see if they can do it on their own? I wonder if that visual image ever changes no matter how much time has elapsed and how accomplished they have become. This is new to me; I can offer myself no expert advice. We will watch, though. But not from a place where we can help dictate a result. He’s on his own now, this kid.
We’ll keep the light on for him.
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