Drinking with my kids
My youngest son came over to visit the other night. He arrived unexpected and he came at precisely the time that I was heading out for a beer. I occasionally go to relax a bit at The Growlerie, a local pub. I sit down in a Adirondack facing the lake and read a little from one of my favorite books while enjoying a local craft beer. I was heading out the door and as I turned, there he was. He asked where I was going and I said, “no, I don’t have to go, come on in and we can visit.” He insisted, “no, I’m not messing up your plans, where ever you were heading, I’ll just go with you. So he and I went on to the Pub. I sat down and he ordered a stout right there like it was all natural to him. Although he’s 23 years old now, it’s still a little weird drinking with my youngest son. He’s always been the baby … but he’s all grown up now. Sometimes parents may recognize it, but fail to understand it. I remember when I was young and was moving out moving on. I was starting my own family. I didn’t really realize what feelings my own parents were having as I sprung the nest until now.
On a lighter note, this experience reminds me of a story …
An Irishman’s first drink with his son
I was reading an article last night about fathers and sons, and memories came flooding back of the time I took my son out for his first drink. Off we went to our local bar, which is only two blocks from the house. I got him a Guinness Stout. He didn’t like it – I couldn’t let it go to waste, so I drank it. Then I got him an Old Style, he didn’t like it either, so I drank it. It was the same with the Coors and the Bud. By the time we got down to the Irish whiskey, I could hardly push the stroller back home.