I have never been what one might call a “well-adjusted adult”. There is a reason that at most dinner parties, while those that invited us are discussing politics and finance I am outback playing Ping Pong with their 13 year old children. For me, it’s that they’re into the same movies, comic books and cartoons that I have on my DVR. For them, it’s that I can drink beer legally and have (more than likely) seen a woman at least partially naked.
There is an old saying that “some day every boy must put away his toys and become a man”. I have always fought this tooth and nail, retreating all the way to a heaven of nascent Peter Pan-ism like Los Angeles to avoid it. When Jack was born I was initially worried that this would necessitate my rush into unwavering adulthood. But why? I am privileged to be part of a new generation that, for the first time, is able to hold on to the things that they loved as a child and allow those passions to continue to shape them into adulthood. It’s a chance that my parents and their parents worked hard for me to be comfortable enough to enjoy. A chance at maintaining a perpetual sense of child-like wonder at the world.
I cannot think of a bigger disservice to Jack than to deny him the same chance.
Okay, so I’m sure I can think of at least one bigger disservice. Like, I mean, not feeding him would be worse. Yeah.
I was being poetic. Jeez.