December 4, 2004

Dear Mr. Bush,

I suppose it's only fitting that what was perhaps the most adult day of my entire life ended with a drunken run to eat pancakes at the corner diner. After a day spent touring our birthing hospital and shopping for a car that's big enough to fit our little family, the evening was spent making beer-fueled wisecracks, telling lurid stories, and feeling young (though Anne did point out the the pancake runs used to happen at a much later hour back when we truly were young).

It's weird, Mr. Bush, this whole getting older thing. On one hand you embrace it, but on the other, you find yourself standing awkwardly in a hospital orientation, looking around and thinking, Who are you people? Why am I here with you? I am not old and boring and square. But I suppose that's the trick of it, isn't it Mr. Bush: You find a balance between being responsible and still being able to embrace the world as the never-ending source of wonder that it is. Maybe that's the trick, or maybe it's not, but it'll have to work for now.

Good night,



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