Confession: This is a story I’ve had on the calendar — quite literally — for a very long time. But I lacked the “testicular fortitude” to approach it. Instead, I’ve avoided it like the plague.
When I write, I emotionally embody whatever I’m working on. For example, when I’m writing something light-hearted and funny, I’ll actually laugh like a loon while typing. My whole mood is happy and upbeat. Not a care in the world.
…But when I write about something darker and sadder, the opposite happens.
So this is a column that was always, 100% destined for the VIP section. No way was I gonna put it out for the whole world to see. I’ve only been writing here for a few months, but I already think of us as a special community — like, I know we’re technically strangers… but in a sense, we’re really not: This site has a specific purpose — a dedicated mission — that we’re all pursuing together. It’s something we share. And if you VIPers are gonna pay extra to support this mission, then I owe you something extra as well.
This column is way more personal than partisan politics. Let’s face it, we’re all here because we love our country and have a vested interest in Trump winning (and/or defeating liberal extremism), but our ultimate legacy probably won’t be political. Fifty years from now, there’s a fairly good chance that everything I’ve ever written will be lost forever. Like… it never even mattered.
But our families will remain.
In 50 years, my oldest son will be 68. He turned 18 today. (Turns out he shares a birthday with Kamala Harris. How lovely.) By that time, he’ll probably have children and grandchildren. Maybe great-grandchildren! I can’t even wrap my head around that.
Our true legacy is our children.
When I was a kid, I didn’t spend much time with my Dad. He worked a lot. I guess it bummed me out, but I honestly don’t remember feeling too bad about it: None of my friends really hung out with their parents either. (The only kids who did were the super-religious weirdo families, where everyone had the same initials and smiled all the time.) In the 1980s and 1990s, if you went to the movie theater with your parents and bumped into a bunch of your friends, it was kind of embarrassing.
But I go to movies with my boys all the time. We catch concerts, too: Seen Iron Maiden (twice!), Ghost, Avenged Sevenfold, Falling in Reverse, Dragon Force, and lots more. It’s awesome.
Back in the 80s, if I had asked my Dad to catch, say, a Van Halen concert with me, he would’ve stared at me like I had 17 heads. It just wasn’t something we ever did.
I have a different relationship with my kids.
At 18, you’re legally a man. But my boy joined the U.S. Army Cavalry through the Florida National Guard and finished his basic training when he was just 17, so I already viewed him as a man. Plus, he’s bigger and stronger than me. Smarter, too.
Still, out of all his birthdays, this was the one that terrified me the most.
Part of it is pure selfishness: I’m the luckiest man in the whole damn universe, because my favorite people ALL live under my roof. Me, my wife, and my two boys: This is my Heaven.
And this is the last year we’ll all be together.
Right now, my oldest son is finishing his college applications. Some are nearby; others are very, very far away. We’re standing at the precipice of permanent, life-altering changes.
Then, a few years later, my youngest boy (15) will be gone, too.
So this is the last year of the best years of my life. And they were very good years indeed. My dreams all came true.
And now… I guess I need a new dream.
Maybe I’m looking at this wrong way. Like the Bible says, “God doesn’t close a door… without also locking your windows shut and setting your house on fire.” (Wait, that’s not right.) Maybe this isn’t an ending, but a new beginning.
But it sure feels like an ending.
