Our son was born in the 1983 March I turned 33 years old and I left my job as a features editor at the Chicago Tribune’s suburban newspaper. I loved my job and I loved our boy. No contest.
One October morning, this little blob of boy and I were at the park two blocks from our Downers Grove house. He decided walking was altogether possible if he got a swooping start off the end of a curvy yellow slide.
It was not. I further affirm it is NOT possible to hoist 28 pounds of boy 8 steps up to commence sliding AND make it down to catch him when he launches out its other end.
This pleased him. Each swoop provided a millisecond of standing as he broke his fall. Then, as one might suppose, he fell.
Let him nose dive? Squelch adventure boy? Randomly, I exchanged looks with a suit-and-tie man trekking to the commuter train near the park. I envied him. Well, not him, specifically. I envied his order and sureness and styrofoam coffee cup; or rather I grieved for my loss of same.
Clearly, however, young superboy was beginning to discover his.
It’s altogether possible that commuter envied me.