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My Son Josh

 It can be tricky to be the child of a writer. That's because writers tend to have two interests, films and bookstores. That's not a wide range.


My son Josh can't tolerate movies, and this is hard for me to accept. Yesterday, Susie and I took our first "solo" trip to the cinema; the title was "Vengeance Most Fowl," the story was delightful, and the entire afternoon was marked by a notable absence of struggle. By contrast, with Josh, my options are: shooting hoops, playing catch, and bouncing the bouncy ball.

That's not to imply that bouncy balls are something less than an absolute treat. I recommend this game in the intervals between potty visits: It's great to have pure chaos, no undies, no diapers, in the presence of a little Quidditch ball (with a mind of its own). 

Josh seems to have an agenda, a campaign to make me less recessive. When I want to read, he sneaks into the kitchen, mixes water with Life cereal, adds ground black pepper, and sticks the brew into his microwave. This *is* emphatically more fun than staring at a Joyce Carol Oates novel. When Josh does agree to visit a bookstore, he approaches strangers with unfeigned curiosity: "What's YOUR name?" He lifts a copy of the January 6th report from a shelf and says, "MINE." And he proudly reads out his newest sight word: "THE!"

We're adding something to our repertoire; we're adding music class. Josh lists singing as his number-one talent, and I don't disagree. There is something otherworldly in his parody of Barbra Streisand tunes. He seems to grasp just how silly these recordings tend to be.

Looking forward to whatever else we discover in this new year.
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