Growing old

This boy was three years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 34. Now, he is seven. I am 38. What a pleasure it is to grow old with this guy, who often recalls my cancer moments.

“Did you almost die from cancer?” Joey asks periodically.

“No, I did not,” I always tell him.

“Remember when you didn’t have any hair?” he’ll sometimes say.

“How could I forget,” I tell him, just before we reminisce about how he helped shave my head, how I cried, how he told me it was just a haircut.

Three years old, he was. And he remembers. So do I.

Sunday Silly

On Sunday, we were silly. It was John’s idea. A family pyramid—yes, that’s what we’ll do, he decided. Not my favorite idea at first. I mean, it was nearly 90 degrees outside. I was freshly showered after a double workout—bike ride and run—and kneeling on the ground with one 75-pound boy and another 45-pound boy on my back didn’t emerge as my top-ranked activity (strolling the landscape and watching my guys run wild in the grass were my picks).

Call me a good sport, though. I complied with the pyramid idea. And here I am, with my three loves. And while the group arrangement was a tad painful at the time of dismount (see below), it was, yes, fun—especially now as I look back on what was captured on film.

On Sunday, we were silly. So glad we were.