Buds

When I'm not wondering about world peace, I'm watchng buds open. How something round and blunt can morph into something ornate and decorative cause for wonder, if only on a small scale, on my counter.

My son is also morphing. He's growing, flexing his muscles, and challenging things he would have let go last year. Challenging us by devil's advocating, proving us wrong, proposing alternative times to do what we ask him to do, proving us wrong, he moves toward manhood, whatever that is.

Of course, he's really just like I probably was. My parents invented an alter ego for my know-it-all, testosterone poisoned adolescent self: "SuperTeen!" Mom didn't tell me until I was about 30. It's not hard to believe that Robyn and I (and Caitlin, who certainly has had a hand in this) would raise an opionated, verbal person. My rational side (I think I am sitting on it) knows that this change is inevitable. My emotional side would just like to get the last word. Once.

By definition, of course, none of us gets the last word. Our history will be defined by our successors. Who we are is up for grabs, depending on who remembers what. My Mom is busily forgettng things she never told me. I'm remembering her through each intervening moment.

Walker and Brendan finished the go cart last week. It has flames and rolls quite nicely down our long hill. Robyn says we should have kids' parents sign a waiver if they ride it. They did a nice job, please note the flames, and the 666 insignia, and even put away most of my tools when they were done.

Today I drive to Dubuque. It's an hour on Hwy 151, north through our Grant Wood landscape. Sometimes I turn off the radio and talk to myself. I get the last word then, by God.