I'm nearing the end of vacation, slowly shrugging off a self-imposed digital hiatus to see if there's any work-related drama awaiting my return on Monday. We had a too-brief visit with family who report that my 11-year-old niece has adopted a manual typewriter for her memoirs: one can never start too early. I'm staying up too late reading, sleeping in too much, and may turn into an actual slug for want of physical activity. It's fantastic.
Today I took my teenage son out for his first driving lesson, making the obligatory slow circuits around an empty parking lot. It's the route preferred by generations of nervous fathers suddenly realizing that their first child is eye-level and still growing, and that we're far closer to college than crayons. In a tiny, proud way, my heart is breaking.
Happy Father's Day to the dads out there in the Typosphere, new, old, and upcoming. I'll be recharged in a couple more days, but first, I feel a nap calling me from underneath a good book.