But why is it that the days we’re supposed to be proudest of them are the days they makes us want to check their birth certificates to make sure the hospital didn’t mix our baby up with a random baby-raised-in-a-barn? I'm not even sure why we bothered to pick out a name. He operates under a code name, and we acknowledge each other in public with a series of hand signals most third base coaches would agree means, "Steal Home. Go in low."
We discovered that Son Two made the Dean’s List every semester in college when the Records Office grew tired of storing his certificates and mailed them to the house in a large, brown, unmarked envelope. Now the neighbors think we’re the Southeastern Drop Zone for Frederick’s of Hollywood.
Last week was the topper. He roamed through the living room on his way to the kitchen, furrowed his brow as if he recognized me from somewhere he couldn’t quite place, and finally dredged up a Very Important Tidbit from the midst of video game code zones in his brain.
Son Two: Um, I’m supposed to go to this thing.
Me: What is it?
Him: Um, Awards Day.
Me: When is it?
Him: I think it’s this month. Or next month. Unless it was last month. I’m pretty sure it’s this year.
Me: Could we narrow it down? Is it a month with an R in it?
Him: (Consulting three electronic devices, including a GPS with an Australian accent.) Tomorrow.
Me: (Freaking out) Do you have anything to wear?
Him: (Totally cool) You’re gonna get all dress code on me, aren’t you?
And that’s when I decided that Cinqo de Mayo is not the only occasion that calls for a round of tequila.
Congratulations V-Man! We're proud of you!