my slug

except for when i’m really tired, it seems like just yesterday when i first met him.

today is my son’s birthday. kipp is his name; slug is my pet name for him. slug, from the book atlas shrugged by ayn rand – the hottest coal that keeps the fire roaring to keep the train’s engine moving. yep, he is my slug.

he is a true renaissance man – one who loves hiking and skydiving and reading and snowboarding and playing guitar. he’s a wicked good actor and writer, and if you mapped his various areas of intelligence, his brain would light up like our neighbor’s house at christmas.

he makes halloween costumes you just wouldn’t believe and just recently, his idea for a startup company took first place at startup weekend. he’s kind and articulate, and he usually smiles (which is great cause those braces weren’t cheap).

unlike his mama, he’s hardly a picky eater, and unlike his dad, he enjoys post-movie conversations of deconstruction and philosophy. like his dad, he likes fine art and georgia tech, and like his mama, he likes handmade journals and stories. like both of us, laughter is his religion.

he is handy with a camera, and hopefully he’ll pick it up again one day soon and start taking more pictures because he has a way of seeing that stops me dead in my tracks. like the time we rode under telephone wires . . . he looked up at the kudzu creeping and skipping its way across, and said simply “nature’s reclamation.”

wallace stevens was once his favorite poet, now he’s going through a billy collins phase. he’s a good companion to his dog, even letting otto have a pet roomba (the robotic vaccuum cleaner) because he knows border collies just need to herd things.

he is my son, and i frequently wonder what i did in a former life that landed me fortunate enough to be his mother.

happy birthday, kipp.

i love you.