(10/15) “They don’t give you a pamphlet for it. When they start...

(10/15) “They don’t give you a pamphlet for it. When they start to click over into adulthood; it’s like a little death. I’ll never forget the day I brought home a Star Wars Lego set. I poured it out on the table, and started to organize the pieces. Jack was maybe five. He pushed my hand away, and said: ‘No Daddy, I do it.’ Oh man. There should be a pamphlet for that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing to watch them grow up. Every few months you get to say ‘hello’ to a new person. But you have to say goodbye too. I remember dropping Jack off for his first piano lesson. I printed out the sheet music for Summer, Highland Falls. I slipped it into his binder, and said: ‘This is Daddy’s favorite song. Wouldn’t it be amazing if you could learn it?’ He rolled his eyes. I said: ‘C’mon, just one song.’ And he’s like: ‘Dad, please stop.’  I said: ‘OK, OK. Just keep it in your binder. In case you change your mind.’ He never changed his mind. But he did start writing his own music. He’d hear a song that he liked, on YouTube, or one of his video games, and he’d lock himself in his room for hours. When he came back out he’d have a written a whole new version. With different chords. It was like: ‘Wow!’ I was proud of him, yes. Of course I was proud of him. Did I wish it had been both of us in that room, singing Summer, Highland Falls?’ Also yes. But no matter how far he clicked over into adulthood, I’d get him back for five glorious weeks a year. We didn’t have a fireplace in our apartment. We’d put the Christmas tree next to a window, and leave the window open. Jack would decorate a plate. Then on that plate we’d put out Santa’s favorite cookie, a big Linzer tart. Also happens to be my favorite cookie. I’d take a big bite of the tart and make some crumbs, and I’d drink the milk. Then the next morning he’d knock on our door at six o’clock, screaming: ‘He came! He came!’ It drove Tabatha crazy. Every Christmas, she’d say: ‘It’s out of control. You’re out of control. This is the year we have to tell him.’ Second grade, third grade, fourth grade. Every time: ‘This is the year.’ But I’d always say: ‘Not yet. When it’s time, it’s time. But one more year. Just give me one more year.”