Four Crying Out Loud

My father used to have great bonfire parties in October.  In the months leading up to them, he would spend loads of time gathering old brush, fallen limbs, and dried leaves to add to the mountain he was assembling in his field. All of his friends looked forward to it, mostly because he was such an excellent host. On this night, his dining room table transformed into a buffet of appetizers, chips and dips. And his porch boasted several galvanized tubs complete with a sea of chilled craft beers just begging to be sampled. His friends, many of whom he had known since childhood, spent the evening mingling about, laughing, and drinking, their faces warm and glowing from the fire, and probably a little from the alcohol, too. When my son was three, he attended his first bonfire party. I took great care in ensuring that I was outfitting him with a true bonfire "look". I bought him bibbed overalls, a thermal shirt, and hiking boots. So many of my dad's friends were going to

Our son, Holden, recently signed up for a lifeguard course.  I was certain that the amount of hours he would have to commit to the course would turn him away.  Not to mention that it was being held during the most glorious weekend weather we'd had in months.  From 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day, his mind was not on Instagram or You Tube video of BMX stunts. No, there was no time for that.  He had to be hyper-focused on compressions and breaths and making sure he called out the "tweet-tweet-tweet" of the whistle during his drowning victim scenarios. Each evening, Holden came home exhausted.  We watched him use just enough energy to eat dinner and share a little bit about that day's lesson.  He was showered and nestled in his covers earlier than in his toddler years.  Part of us felt badly for him.  He was missing movie nights, favorite restaurant breakfasts, and the spring-like weather.  He would mention it in passing, "It sucks that I can't be riding my bike tod