The Eldest

Kids. They keep you honest. They keep you moving. They keep you eating.
Even when they're 23 years old. They're still your kids.
It's a jolt -- a flash back to the past. He hasn't lived with us for a long time.
Even more, though, I wonder what it's like for him.
Just finished college. Not clear what he's going to do with his life.
Smart, used to working, used to being really busy. Was working two jobs his last period in college, had a million friends, was in college, played several sports.
Doesn't know anything about England, or London, even though his dad is British. Even though his first 7 years of schooling were in the British system, first in Hong Kong and then in Italy where his dad and I worked.
Even though he was born in this city, in a big NHS hospital overlooking Hampstead Heath two days before Christmas 1985. On a rare London day, a day that a light blanket of snow fell.
So this has gotta to be a really big thing for him.
Even more than for us.
He's moved to where he was born, a place he knows about only in elementary school books, a place he's visited less than half a dozen times in his life.
A place that's been important, though, because that's where his dad is from.
Which was never a small thing.
Every time my husband opened his mouth in the States, someone asked him where he was from.
Everyone always loved that he was British.
I'm sure my son loves that about him too.
And now he might get a glimpse of what that actually means.