The Jr. VP sits on my lap before bed time and we watch TV and snuggle and joke and generally have a good time. We do it most nights; it is nice. We play games that sometimes make Mommy mad, like last night when we agreed that if he ever gets lost at a store he will tell the clerk that his name is Joey Jo-Jo Shabadoo and that he’s looking for his daddy, King Awesome. We laughed and laughed at the CFO’s response to that one, and then it was hugging time. There is nothing better in the world than hearing the lad say I love you Daddy, although I love you Mommy is an extremely close second.
Now please read this, by an infinitely better writer than the CEO will ever be. I read it in 2002 before either of the boys joined Kjel.org and it struck me then, but perhaps for different reasons. Now? Oh man.
Every year I think that this is going to be the September 11 when the sadness finally keeps its distance. The year that the rage doesn’t boil over quite as hot. The year that the dread doesn’t peek out from its ugly little hiding spot. That could have been this year. But then a perfect laughing little three year old boy sat in my lap and made some jokes and then asked me about what we were doing tomorrow. Fuck. I can’t help thinking about things that could have been and might still be.
I still feel the same feelings, but perhaps even stronger than I did 7 years ago. Dammit. Fucking terrorists.
