I found a folder of old 35mm pics. You'll be seeing them here for a while.
I'm lying in bed next to my sleeping, snoring son. He is sure to wake up soon with the energy that is generously afforded a five year old boy by a universe that has nothing but contempt for an aging father. Last night as I was making dinner and cleaning up - a whole chicken roast with gravy, potatoes, and greens - the boy nearly drove me out of my mind. He's testing his boundaries, a perfectly normal activity for a curious mind, but one in which I am tempted to let him out to discover the natural boundaries, without my instruction or oversight.
But I love the boy, so something prevents me.
Why can't he just wander out into the world and come back terrified just once, harboring a newfound love and respect for my parental edicts and affection.
Few parents want to see their kids in the hospital or jail, but there must be a touch of satisfying, I told you so, wrapped up in there somewhere, safely hidden within the disappointment. His mother and I are too lenient at times, perhaps a byproduct of being divorced. Who knows. At other times I seem to be an unreasonable dad, admonishing him for screaming Vagina Fart! at his swimming lessons. His instructor was a girl of maybe fifteen, understandably not quite used to this brand of youthful celebration, what may soon become a regular occurrence. I mean the hearing of the phrase, not that she will have to suffer the aural indignities of air unexpectedly leaving her vaginal cavity during or just after coitus.
Isn't the body complex and shameful? It's a miracle of earthly guilt.
If men had something that could make that sound then you'd never hear the end of it.
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