The apple doesn't fall far

So, last night, I had a Mom’s Night Out with some of the other mothers from my 8-year-old’s class.  We get together once a month in order to allow our husbands special alone time with our children so they can warn, cajole, negotiate, threaten put our children to bed for the night (isn’t that nice of us?). 

We spend the first minutes regaling each other with hilarious tales of our children.  And man, they are funny kids.  We learn from each other what hot topics are being tossed around on the schoolbus (the election, duct tape).  We sometimes discuss the teachers or homework assignments.  But, mostly, we enjoy each other’s company.  It’s nice to be around people who understand this part of you. 

It’s also nice to hear things your child won’t tell you, but some of the more chatty other children will.

What?  It’s not like I’m reading a personal journal or anything. 

Last night, I learned my 8-year-old son, my boy, my first-born, is writing a book with his friend while they ride the bus to and from school. 

I cannot begin to explain what this did to me. 

For one, I am absolutely convinced that I created him all by myself.  It’s cute and all to pretend I had help from the husband, but, I think, with this one, it was all me.  He looks like me, he has my grandfather’s personality, my father’s hands and love of numbers.  And now he’s writing?  He’s mine.

My second-born, my baby, while I love him just as much, was definitely made in collaboration with my husband.  He’s received all of my husband’s good looks, his disposition, but my… snark.  He’s a great kid.

But, this writing thing...  I’ve been writing since I can remember.  I had always been an avid reader.  And, in fifth grade, I decided to attempt writing my own story.  I mean, how hard can it be?  You make up characters, setting and plot.  There’s a conflict.  Then a resolution.  Done and done.  Right?

My story itself was terrible, of course, but I liked writing it anyway. 

In high school and college, I kept journals.  I didn’t get the best English teachers available in my high school, so I didn’t really appreciate writing until my first semester in college.  I got my degree in English, with big dreams (and little ambition, drive, determination, motivation, skill…) of writing the Great American Novel. 

Eh.  I’m better with a blog. 

But, my son!  He could write the Great American Novel.  It might be about Legos or Star Wars, but who cares?  You go, kid!