Strength

I’m always the weak one. At least in regards to my son. I cry at the drop of a hat. As hard as it is to admit, I’m still in mourning a bit. I cry because Lennon can’t do things, can’t understand things, can’t tell me things. Don’t get me wrong, I love him for exactly who he is. I tell him nightly how perfect he is.

Kenny, on the other hand, goes through the motions of the day without any real tells. I guess that’s what makes him such a good poker player. You wouldn’t know what he was thinking unless you asked and miraculously he answered.

I’ve seen him cry once, once in five years.

When Lennon was about a month old Kenny fell down the stairs with him. No one was hurt, but Kenny felt incredibly guilty.

Tonight, albeit no tears, Kenny let me know what he was thinking.

“Looking at Facebook is tough,” he said.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Just seeing other kids do things. My friend’s daughter is a few months younger than Lennon and is reciting her ABCs.”

“Yep.” I didn’t feel like it warranted a longer response from me, like I said I cry all the damn time.

And that’s the truth. Facebook is hard. Instagram is hard. Life, in general, is hard. And it’s probably going to get harder. It’s just nice to have two special someone’s to ride it out with.

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