I met my kid on the library lawn, where he had spent the afternoon. I feel like I should have a sharper memory of exactly what he said, exactly his body language and expressions, because I write and pay attention and try to recreate things so they exist in a vivid way, but it’s like how I don’t know how to imitate my dad’s English accent: it just exists, it’s just how he talks.
Ennis just is funny. Witty and clever and goofy and deadpan, the most fun improv partner I’ve ever riffed with.
We went to Buck’s and he tried to convince me I should get him a bait fish (chub) for a pet– and then tricked me into looking in the leech tank (then swearing that if he had one it would never end up in my bed).
He bought tall bamboo poles for some sort of samurai staff (and later did some old-fashioned weed whipping in the yard).
And we stopped and smelled the roses in the garden, and I told him that my grandpa used to grow roses, so the smell makes me think of him. (Ennis found one he particularly liked… and ate a petal).
He’s so sincere and present and comfortable in himself. That’s a joy to be around, and such a good feeling as his mom: he is who he is, and I helped with that. If a younger me met him, she’d wish for her future child to be just like him.
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