Ill-advised

Somehow we ended up (my kids and I) watching videos (such as they are–most are mere 30-second clips, per the limitations of our first digital camera, which still works, by the way, and is still mine–all hail Canon) of the old days.  My younger son as a baby, my older son as a five year old.  And so forth.

We weren’t terribly media-oriented, so there isn’t a whole lot of material.  Still.  There we are, all of us, looking happy and familial.  There’s the beloved dog, now dead, looking spry and beautiful.  There I am, looking rather frumpy most of the time, oblivious and young.  There are the babies, the beautiful babies.  (I use, as you may have noticed, the term “baby” loosely.  I just put my fourteen year old baby, who was upset about a physics test and a Latin test tomorrow, to bed, with lullabies and backrubs.)  The fourteen year old was a bit weepy, seeing the old days.  He cried.  My younger son didn’t understand.  “It’s just–well, where did you GO?” my older son said to my younger son, after watching a particularly adorable clip.  “I’m right HERE,” my younger son snapped, annoyed.  Which made my older son laugh, and made me laugh, too.

And there we are, my ex-husband and I, though not in the same frame at once, ever.  There we were.

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