As is tradition, we all braved the cold on New Year’s Eve to travel the 42 steps next door to attend the Murphy/Green festivities. Chris Green has this way of starting the evening off right. And that way is whisky.
As is tradition, I sat on their big wooden bench to rekindle my yearly romance with Jim, a dad of Eli’s pal Harper. We really only talk once a year, over whisky. And it works for us. We get to tell the same stories as last year and occasionally marvel at the Cha-Cha line of screaming kids moving past. It’s our version of “Same Time Next Year” starring Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn.
As is tradition, the kids ignored any and all suggestions of a kid count down and demanded to stay up until midnight. We Dads of whisky all said it was ok.
As is tradition, everyone was asleep by 12:04am.
As is tradition, I write a little note to everyone I love.
You are still the most caring, lovely, kind boy on the face of the planet, despite your eighteen Nerf guns and 4,000 Nerf bullets. I’m beginning to think your warmth and generosity may be permanent. I desperately want another year of laying down with you at bedtime. I can’t wait to see what you do in 2018 and to hear your happy stories. I love you.
You are suddenly a sportsman. You are so funny and rambunctious and your enthusiasm makes me want to be a sportsman too. It’s insane to think you could become even more hilarious than you were last year, but here we are. I hope Lucaland never goes away and I hope you keep waking up early just to hug me before anyone else. I love you.
I can’t believe how strong you are. How you can be funny and kind and bright even when your eyeballs betray you. You are an inspiration. You are going to beat this stupid thing and I will be there every step of the way. Oh, and Trump is totally getting Impeached this year. I love you.
Don’t die. I love you.