The is an unalterable truth to parenthood: No matter what time you get in on Saturday night, Sunday morning at 7:00, your bedroom door will quietly open and your seven-year-old will crawl into bed with you and give you a wake-up hug. And you’ll be torn between the desire to burrow deeper under the pillows and feign a coma and the automatic reflex to hug back and ask how he’s doing today. In my case, the reflex always seems to win, which pleases me for some reason.
While I certainly partied more when his older brothers were his age, we did a pretty good job last night, getting home from Linse’s Casa Ain’t No Bad Dude about 0215 Sunday morning.
That’s testimony to what a good time we had.
A wide array of blogger and writer talent was there, starting with Cathy Seipp and her precocious daughter Maya (sadly, I hadn’t brought Middle Guy, which is probably good because he’d have fallen in love with her and his grades would collapse and he’d wind up barely getting into a community college just as they raised their tuition to something rivaling Harvard), Martin Devon, Kevin Drum, Bill Whittle, Matt Welch & Emmanuelle, and lots more.
TG bonded with a female friend Brian’s for much of the evening, causing much concern for both Brian and I as we worried about what secrets were being shared out on the patio; we’ll find out soon.
Meanwhile, the most amusing part of the evening was a – conversation – between a dapper gent who identified himself as a journalist and Bill Whittle, Howard Owens, one of the Samizdata crew, and myself. I’ll blog a bit of it over at WoC.
I’ve just finished building a Zoid with Littlesy Guy, and now I have to go marinate steaks for Middle Guy’s birthday dinner tonight…back to blogging tomorrow.