BETHANY MEYER LLC
NAPLES, FLORIDA

Kristin!!! So good to hear from you!!! First, my guess is you saw Maureen at the beach. Second, holy steel trap of a memory, but it’s ironic because the fact that you went to St. Philip and James comes immediately to mind when I think of you. Third, before I forget, one of my husband’s best friends is Joey Brogan. They met as adults…reffing basketball together. How hilarious is that?! Fourth, and I’ll stop counting after this because I’m not good with numbers, my Mom just saw your Mom at the Acme the other day. I was JUST telling my older two boys over the weekend that my favorite times in the ocean were jumping off YOUR Dad’s shoulders in the “deep deep”. OMG, my 3rd son (the Interrogator) looks EXACTLY like my brother, just with blue eyes instead of green. And the Interrogator is not husky like my brother was. Was “health night” no TV? Or no seeing friends? I forget. My Mom will get up on her high horse and whip out her yellow legal pad when she reads that I remember the title “health night”, but forget what it entailed. Ah, the monogrammed beach towels. If you can believe it, I still have my red one that Mrs. O’Keefe gave to me! Erin and I were at the beach with our kids (7 of them between the two of us) on Thursday. She said, “this is not fun. Mom never got out of her chair. Why do we keep getting up for these kids? We never complained as kids. We are doing it all wrong as parents.” I’ve done the Island Run 5 times…and walked right the hell off the course at the 5 mile marker twice. That race on that sand in that heat at that hour of the day after I’ve been digging goddamn 4 foot holes and jumping waves with the kids all day…that race is a son of a bitch. If you’re running it this year, I will be cheering you on…my husband is training for it, and I will gladly be cheering section for both of you. I’ll be next to the guy with the beard and handle bar mustache. Each age possesses its own magic, but twelve seems to shine a little more brightly than most to me. Twelve is a bridge between childhood and the land of teenagers, a place of juxtaposition and paradox. He still kind of wants to trick-or-treat, but he doesn’t necessarily want to dress up in a costume. He peruses the Lego catalog, but he doesn’t find anything he wants to buy with the same sense of urgency and enthusiasm he had even last year. He’s not interested in the pumpkin patch, but he likes to help get the decorations out of the attic. He doesn’t But he can also sometimes be thoroughly exasperating. He can be irresponsible. Arrogant. Careless. He still does not understand consequences; he still doesn’t fear the world, for better or worse. He’s the same child who once jumped into the deep end of the pool before he could swim, who had to be rescued by a lifeguard at the beach because he did not believe a riptide could be stronger than he was, who ran into a tree trying to catch a frisbee because he didn’t look ahead. He believes, quite confidently, that he is smarter than we are. He scares me, because he is, more than ever, my heart walking around outside my body… only now, that heart walks on those long legs, with wizened eyes but without any life experience yet to inform his choices. Is it wrong to hope that’s my doing? I am negotiating with 13 as I write this. He is painfully private, so I feel it’s only right to ask his permission before writing about him. His reply? “You may write about me. But it will cost you.” He lobbies for a YouTube account. I have something less permanent in mind. Like a chocolate milkshake. 13 prefers to stay home and watch Jimmy Fallon clips rather than accompany his buddies to a middle school dance. “Why would I ever want to go there?” he asks. “Please wait to tell me this story when we are not around little ears.” For all of his grunting, 13 grows animated when the subject of Santa Claus arises. This is his fourth Christmas in the know, but you’d never guess by listening to him regale his younger brothers with stories of that time he heard reindeer on the roof. He’s no readier for the magic to end than we are. We are bonded in our enthusiasm to keep the littles believing. I opened my eyes just long enough to notice you boys throwing your heads back with joy. And just long enough to realize that opening my eyes didn’t help. Ah, but my Facebook page was full of excitement, wasn’t it? We were making memories. Like a boss. We were making memories so hard I was hash-tagging it. #makingmemories “Waldorf, stop touching your brother and get out of the picture. GET OUT OF THE PICTURE! You’re ruining it, and you’re ruining my day. You better not ruin this entire fucking summer or so help me Jesus I will ship you away next summer.” “What the hell were you doing climbing on my car? Hang on. Just hold it up there while I take a picture. My GOD, your feet are dirty. Jesus fucking Christ with you boys. Disgusting creatures.” “Goddammit, Waldorf, do you have any sense of urgency in any part of your existence? There is an entire beach full of people waiting behind us! Fucking move! So help me, if you don’t smile, I will save every penny I have to send you to sleep away camp all summer next year. Hey, there it is! The Stanley Cup! We’re making memories this summer, guys, aren’t we?!”