Megan turned 10 yesterday. I'm suddenly without a single-digit child. My mom says she feels old on my birthday, not her own. I understand now. M 'n' m are growing up, and it's finally registering in my gut, which is always more forceful and effectual than any thoughts that float up-top for me. And there are always thoughts up-top; my mind is like a big wave pool. At the base of Niagara Falls. In Hurricane Katrina. Thankfully, Megan and I are both September babies – how cute, to phrase it that way – so if another plus-one to my age is a downer, followed by a reminder-smack on Megan's birthday... well, I guess it's a nice, compact beating. It's over in a few weeks. Then I'm back again, feeling young and happy for the 11 months that aren't September!
Michael's busy. He's in 7th grade, takes high school math, plays the cello, plays on two baseball teams, lives in two houses (a challenging reality for joint-custody-burdened kids like M 'n' m), and, AND! – this is what really siphons away attention, as I recall – there are 8th grade girls at Michael's school. Yep, it's true; they exist. It seems everyday I forget where my keys are, but I remember the crushes, notes, dances, parties, and phone calls that characterized my 7th grade 'relationships.' It's crazy-different now, I imagine, with smartphones, social media, and the controversial shit I'm not even aware of, but I'm certain nothing is better than a hand-passed note in a junior high hallway. Will Michael ever be instructed, in real, human handwriting, to circle 'yes' or 'no' if he likes a certain someone? I hope so. A non-texted, non-electronic note is very satisfying. My heart leapt at every one, with its cute, loopy lettering and origami-like folding. My nerves leapt, too. Even if I never touched or saw my note-giving girlfriend once we were 'going out.' I was dumped and rejected by notes also, of course. But still. Only fond memories. How is Michael handling this part of junior high? I'm not sure, I'll have to ask.
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