Tucked into the corner of a basement guestroom on a rainy Seattle afternoon. Jeremy, plugged into iPod and a suitable Geronimo Stilton story, curls around me on the bed and chews the top button on his well-loved blue polo. It’s been a three-party day, and we both need a bit of quiet time.
We’re up from the Bay Area for Mem Day weekend, wandering through my old stomping grounds and catching up with friends from grad school. Who conveniently all seem to have boys of the same ages and disposition as mine. Yesterday was a bus/monorail/pedestrian expedition down to Pike Place with Lauren and son Elias, to get swept up in the brass pig, flying fish, buskers and vagabonds atmosphere that an ocean of leica-snapping tourists still can’t seem to dilute. After 20 years, it’s still good. Then over to Seattle Center on the monorail (the future is still now!) for frolicking at the Folklife Festival with wall-to-wall people, throbbing drum circles, mohawks in Utilikilts cavorting with pierced-spandex bellydancers, chocolate-covered strawberries, and all the overstim a kid could dream of.