That’s you when you were only two-months old. You had just learned a nifty trick and that trick was holding your head up without assistance. Bossy laid you on the drafty living room floor with nothing but a flimsy blanket to separate you from the sea of painted hardwood flooring, and there you sailed every morning exuding superior intellect and humor.
At the time we were living year-round in a quiet seashore community, because when young Bossy and her husband found out they were going to have a baby they decided to ditch rock bands and the city and their seamless support system in order to move 78-miles into a scene from The Shining.
Do you remember that part in The Shining when Shelly Duvall realizes that the reason people live in a reclusive seashore resort in the first place is because they are too fecking unsociable to invite young mothers over for wine?
You perfected many advanced tricks in those days — like pressing your face against your playpen netting, and sticking your legs between the rungs of your crib. And before Bossy knew it a year had passed and you were walking.
You were the most beautiful and delightful person Bossy could imagine knowing.
You kept everyone entertained — and lucky thing because Bossy’s husband had grown strange facial hair and Bossy was trying to decide if she wanted to spend the rest of her life married to Uncle Billy. Your luminous blue eyes and little chiclet teeth distracted Bossy from signing the divorce papers.
And after that first year we moved back to the city where Bossy and her husband both returned to school. You loved everything about the city because you were only a big-wheel ride away from your grandparents and the little playground. Plus the city offered a way better selection of suspenders.
When you were three you began school. You were intrigued with the idea of sharing your air space with fifteen other kids your size, even if arguments like, “He hit me back first,” left you a little confused.
But what you enjoyed most about your time in the city was the relationship you built with your uncle. The two of you were inseparable — and Bossy’s sage brother taught you many important things, like
the alphabet where to buy Chicken-Cheese-Steaks at midnight.
And Bossy and her husband were also happy in the city — they soon finished school, adopted a dog, and secured two great jobs within walking distance. Which is why they decided to buy a house. Twenty minutes. Outside the city. Don’t ask, except to say: Bossy will go to great lengths to avoid using a Pooper Scooper.
You settled into your new small town life with aplomb. You made tons of small town friends and participated in lots of small town things. And within three years you had a small town baby sister. And everything was
swell well hell. ‘Hell’ because your parents decided to relocate again — this time the moving van delivered you from your happy life into an episode of Green Acres.
Not that the years on the farm didn’t come with a few benefits. For instance you learned to play by yourself — for hours, weeks, and Phanerozoic eons at a stretch. You mastered the art of scoring touchdowns against peckish roosters. And you learned that black snakes often sun themselves on warm March mornings. Inches from your breakfast cereal. But mostly our proximity to Washington DC inspired your fierce love of politics. Never one to be outshone by your sister, you were an active participant in the heroic Blowjobs Don’t Count rally.
When you were nearly ten we moved back to our small town outside of the city. Bossy and her husband came to this decision after considering economic, social, and school district concerns. That and the fact that you rarely removed your Batman costume and it was beginning to freak Bossy and her husband the hell out. We bought a house on our old street and you settled directly back into your small town relationships and small town activities. Do you know how all kids pass through An Awkward Phase? For you, not so much.
It was right around this time when you fell in love with New York and began imagining yourself in a college experience shaped by a major city.
But ghost town, farm town, small-town, or city — throughout these changes you’ve always been a sweet family citizen and one hell of a great guy.
And now you are eighteen. It seems freaky when only yesterday you were dashing around in a blur of curls and silly fun. Wait — that was yesterday.
Alas not much has changed. You’re still that winning, hilarious, focused, intelligent, clear-eyed, inquisitive baby boy. Bossy is so happy she had the chance to grow up with someone like you.