The holiday gave rise to a whole collection of random notes. Bear with me as I clean out a few mental pockets.
I’m fond of joking that my lovely former spouse and I are in the three phases of parenthood: With the youngest, we can still solve the occasional issue with a hug and a kind word. With the lovely middle child, we are the loveable buffoons who occasionally have the money. With the eldest, we are the fucking idiots with the money. And so it goes. Funny what you note and when you note it. We sent the mighty middle child west with her best friend and the friend’s parents on the fourth to spend time in Las Vegas followed by a canyon tour. Being all of 15 (and about to turn 16, as she would want me to add), her mom and I got over our fears of our child two time zones away and went on a charm offensive to get her at peace with the idea. The tragical history tour left last night and about 9 we got a call from chicago. “Did you like the first flight?” “No” was the curt reply. Apparently, she was really jazzed, but we were never going to see that.
I awoke to a text saying “I’m on a monorail.” So, I guess mission accomplished. Considering when her older sister turned 16, she was briefly in a bar with me in Williamsburg and now she is in Vegas. Either, we are either irresponsible or the coolest parents ever. I’ll opt for the latter.
While all this was going on, amazing number one son and I were watching a little tv and decided at the last minute to head down to the Central Wharf downtown to check out the fireworks. Got to say to Buffalo Place, well done. All the parking spots were open and reasonably priced. I slide into a space by the arena at 9:45 and we walked over the bridge to the strains of Lance Diamond turning somebody’s mother out in short order. The wharf wasn’t overly crowded and we caught a neat little show without working terribly hard. Not going to lie about the appeal of that. Nice half hour of pyrotechnics to cap a day, that sort of lost track of the holiday a little.
A friend of a friend lost his house saturday night and I started Sunday at a funeral for another. A little recentering was in order and Buffalo Place did the trick.
Mike's Pub 
Well, parenting three children is like drinking more than one Guinness in a sitting. The excitement and anticipation of that first one is almost unbearable. It arrives and at first it’s a bit of an eye opener, especially if you’ve never had one before, but soon it’s smooth sailing. You adjust and settle in for the ride. This is damn good you think to yourself, and decide to have another.
The second is easier than the first! You know what to expect, you get a little bold, carry it around with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other telling tales of the first and how well you handled that and how cool it makes you.
Then someone surprises you with a third! You have second thoughts, but it’s too late, it’s on it’s way. You handled the first two fabulously! What’s one more? You’re feeling your oats and damnit people like you! The first two are feeling like they’ve lost their ranking and the third is hanging on for dear life. You’re singing and telling jokes, the good ones and the bad ones because hey! You don’t care!
Later, you lay your big head down on your huge pillow and dream the dreams of the parent extraordinaire. You wake up in the morning with a headache that tells you that you really should have stopped at one. But you know in your heart for what it was worth it was worth all the while.
Our three kidlets and learning to drink one Guinness in thirds. It was a marriage made in heaven, eh Powers?