My eldest turned 21 today. He reached his “majority,” that milestone in the law whereby he can enter into a binding contract, buy a bottle of tequila, get married without permission …
I’m stunned to be the parent of an adult. All trite comments and cliches about “they grow up so fast” and “they’ll be driving before you know it” apply. I can’t believe it was 21 years ago, as the Red Sox tilted at another failed World Series and his poor mother endured 24 hours of labor, that he came into this world, freaking us out as the world’s most important biology experiment.
Tonight we talked about the Sox as they went down 2 to 4 in Game 3 of the ACLS. He’s more of a fan that I ever was, pulling me along with him back into that New England obsession that I vowed never to invest time in again after Buckner fumbled the ball. I’ve loved to embellish his birth story by telling him he popped into this world at the exact instant that the poor gimpy first baseman made his epic error, but that isn’t true, that happened ten days later, when he was home with his mother and me, a human pupae.
It sounds better my way.
He blogs about the movies at http://www.churbuck.com/cinemania
This is one of his namesakes (the other is T.S. Eliot), the greatest maritime historian, Samuel Eliot Morison.
Happy birthday Eliot!