Time marches on. My little boy is twelve years old now. Soon he’ll be thirteen. Then eighteen. Then thirty-eight. Then eighty-three. I wonder what his life will be like—if he’ll find his true passion, if he’ll invent something amazing. If he’ll have a flying car at some point. You put your time and energy and all the love you have into making a new person, but you never know how it’s going to turn out because as it happens, it’s not just you making the new person. They’re making themselves too. (“Is that your robot?”… “No, I’m mine.”) I’m excited to see what my little person makes himself out to be. I love you, child of mine.
Kid was just in the bathroom, humming a Brahms sonata. Accurately. And expressively.
Now he’s out in the family room, singing “The system… is down… The system… is down.”