40

My son arrived on Mother's Day,  sunny-side up, eyes wide open, wondering what he'd missed during his trip through the birth canal.

There isn't much that he's missed along the next 40 years.  It takes him a while to get around to doing it, but when he does it, he does it very well.    

He never toddled; he ran. He never read on his own for pleasure until the end of 3rd grade when necessity forced him to finish Edgar Rice Burroughs's John Carter series all by himself.  He takes his time when meeting new people; his friends are his friends for life. 

He goes deep over a broad range of topics.  He sets high standards when accepting new information, so his recommendation of the smart person I listen to on this is always worth a look. 

We don't always agree. 

I've tried, but I still think the whole 538/Obama Boys/Pod Save America situation is puerile and self-referential and not worth the effort of waiting for the occasional nugget of a new thought to creep its way through the advertising and the whining and the blather.   He listens to my ranting with a loving smile, reassuring me that it's okay, he'll love me anyway, even if I'm wrong.... oh, so very wrong.

How did it happen that I now enjoy being patronized by my son?

How did four decades fly by?  

In the afternoon, 40 years ago today, he fit on his father's forearm.

Forty years later, his own first born child does the same, one month into her first journey around the sun.  Firmly believing in the power of early indoctrination imprinting, he has begun her education: a major in the intricacies of Warriors' basketball, with a minor in poor officiating.

He's sharing the love.  She's feeling the vibes.  

I know just where those 40 years have gone.