It was raining and very windy.
I mean, it’s Scotland so this wasn’t unexpected.
I pulled at the backseat door handle but the door didn’t open. Shannon, my wife, eased into the dry shelter of the front seat without issue.
We had reminded ourselves of which side the driver’s seat was on prior to being picked up. It’s one of those things you know you know when you’re in the UK but you need to continually remind yourself so you don’t accidentally whip the car door open and try to sit on the driver’s lap.
The car was being driven by Shannon’s best pal, Nicola. So Shannon got shotgun. I was relegated to the backseat with Sam. Nicola’s ten year old son.
As I tried the door handle one more time I saw a small hand reach over and click the button and the door sprung open.
I squeezed my aging, malleable body into the back seat and closed the door. Then I introduced myself to Sam, as we’d never met.
Sam looked at me like I would look at me if I was ten years old and suddenly sharing the backseat with a big, slightly corpulent, old, damp oaf.
Then we chatted.
Then it hit me. That wave of realization/shock/oldness that I was talking to the child of a dear old friend.
Your friend’s children are sometimes eerily like your friend but they’re not your friend and it’s probably inappropriate to bring up that story about how your friend was so drunk one night you brushed their teeth for them… because you realize that that friend is their parent.
We then went out to lunch at a pub that Nicola and Shannon had worked at as teens. I sat across from Sam and his twelve year old brother, Jay.
Sam and Jay are great.
Smart, funny, and polite.
Deadpan funny.
Like their Mom.
Your friends’ kids are like if you were asked to make a clone of your friend from memory.
You get something kinda like them.
They end up with the good bits.
The essence of what you like about your friend in the first place.
If you’re lucky enough to get old and meet your friend’s kids, it’s kinda great.
Getting old is a gift.
You might not be as taut, fit or fine as you were when you were younger… but you get to wear each wrinkle, ache and pain like a medal.
And if you’re even luckier, you get to embarrass your friend and tell your friend’s kids about how you got each one.
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Wait til you are pushing 80 and you meet their grandchildren :- who are adults. You can tell all the stories then. They won’t believe that Grandma, Opa, Nonno, Yaya would have ever been capable of such depravity.
Thank you, Brittlestar, for these newsletters and videos. Always something to learn, reflect upon, or snicker with. Sometimes, too, slowing down enough to say thanks!