" Passages"

We're taking our oldest son out to dinner for his 18th birthday on this mild evening in late August.
Tomorrow, we'll help him move on-campus to begin The College Years.
This morning, he registered with the Selective Service a clever way our government connects financial aid with civic duty for its male citizens.
“ Make music not war,” my son's tee-shirt advises.
His school is thirty-five minutes away but my son, not a big proponent for change, views the transition like a trip to Uranus. His four sisters couldn't wait to spread their wings and fly off to college. My son likes to feel the earth beneath his sneakers.
“ When I grow up, I'm going to be a teacher, get married, have kids, and still live in my bedroom,” he told us when he was about fourteen.
Apparently, it was a strong sentiment.
I too have reservations about his departure. He is my namesake, my first boy after four beautiful but perplexing girls, and a relative joy to be around. We share a love for sports, 70's rock 'n roll, and dry quirky humor. I admire his calm almost somnolent demeanor and his pervading altruism.

“ Can I give that man my hot dog, Daddy,” he asked once at a busy city intersection.
“ His sign says 'Will work for cheeseburgers'" I politely pointed out.
In his absence, our lives will focus on his nine and ten- year old brothers, siblings we adopted five years ago. They will either kill me quickly or sustain me in my semi-golden years.
“ You'll be home five months of the year. College will be, by far, the best years of your life,” I reason through the locked bathroom door.
“ Can I order the Hibachi Steak and Lobster Tail,” my son counters.
( What's another $28.95 after $34,000, I think to myself)
“ Go for it, oh seed of my loin! ” I reply.