You know what....I know what I want to write about right now. My son, age 18, is in the children's church room, diagonal across from my office, with three little children at this moment. He's watching these kids so that the mom's who brought them can enjoy the women's breakfast without distraction.
I'm listening to him interact with these kids...and I'm so impressed by him. He's playing games with them, and I hear him say something, there's a pause, and I hear them giggle. I peek my head in, and he's playing hang-man with them on a dry erase board. (but I can just hear it now...some incensed mom saying "we don't let our little angel play games that have violent connotations to them...blah blah blah"). There's a little boy and two little girls. My son is a handsome young man...and even at their young ages, I can see these little girls are taken by him...and captivated by his interaction with them.
He looks right at them as he asks them for a letter, then makes a dramatic declaration if they guess one right. They love it, and he laughs with them. He wants to be a teacher. He'd be a good one.

He's 18! I didn't have that kind of character at his age. I couldn't see past my own teenage angst to think about anyone else but poor, misunderstood me. I'm so proud of my kids...but it's strange how the whole familial staging ground works, they so often don't know that I am.

I am so proud of my kids...I'm so proud of my son.