I don’t want to start a whole “Runaway Bride” type of uproar, but I’d like to ask everyone to be on the lookout for my No. 1 son.
Yeah, I know, lots of people have seen or met a tall, good-looking young fellow who CLAIMS to be No. 1. In fact, that guy is planning to come visit us for a few days later this week. He’ll get plenty of hugs and high fives and fist bumps from my 19, 17 an 13 year olds when he arrives. . .they totally believe that he’s No. 1 son.
But I’ve got a message for that guy. I’m onto you. I’ve learned you’re going to be 30 years old on June 25. Which means there’s no way you can be my little boy. Or can you?
Can you be the community-minded young fella who has “sold himself” in a bachelor auction for charity, or run a race dressed up as Cleopatra to raise money for another?
Can you be the worldly exchange student who just yesterday returned from five months in New Zealand with new stories, new adventures, and new friends from all over the globe (but thankfully no Maori tattoos)?
Can you be the college freshman who just yesterday showed off your biggest first semester project - an Afro the size of a tumbleweed?
Can you be the high school graduate who just yesterday was grinning with joy and expectation, your face nearly as flushed as your red cap and gown?
Can you be the leggy high-schooler who just yesterday ran a leg on a state championship track relay team?
Can you be the new motorist who just yesterday was so jazzed about your newly minted license that you enthusiastically drove your dad to the grocery to buy diapers (for your baby brother, not for your dad!)?