So I'm in the supermarket after taking the kids to school as I am most every morning since the grocery store is right in front of the subway. Maybe it's just that I'm older now but the Westside Market on 110th Street here in Manhattan plays awsome music considering the venue. I rarely listen to Seventies hits at home but there while I'm debating my cereal choices I'm often humming to Steely Dan or James Taylor. Today it was Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle," and I nearly fell to my knees and wept. Chet's pretty melodramatic but this morning he was in rare form telling me that I loved A and her daughter M and Ava thiiiis much (holding out his arms wide) but him only this much (pinching his little fingers together). I'm afraid he's becoming the forgotten middle child. 
He is a magnificent movie star of a boy, and the only boy in our house and perhaps the most dominant personality. I do feel sorry for him sometmes that he doesn't have his mom around as much as he deserves so I think I try to be an extra attentive dad but I know that sometimes our situation is hard for him.
He's been sucking his thumb since he was an infant. His mom breastfed him for about the first four months and then she moved out at eight months. I've always seen his thumbsucking as compensating for that. Still, now that he's knocking on seven my patience is worn out and sometimes I'm terrible about riding him about it. He did a program of rewards and marking a calendar for every night he didn't suck his thumb back then when he was four with our dental hygenist. It seemed to work for a while but now, lately, he's sucking his thumb more than ever. I've tried a special shirt that has mittens attached to the long sleeves and every night I put one of my tube socks on his hand but now, during the day, he's sucking it more than ever.
Today was his publishing party in his class and he showed me his very thick book of all that he'd written this year. I was so proud of him. He's come so far this year. The very first story was a drawing of the two of us with the words, "My dad is the bast dad in the hol wrld." When I pointed it out to him he said, "I meant 'worst'." I just laughed and had him sit on my lap.
With Father's Day just behind us I've been thinking about my own dad a lot. The New York Times ran an excerpt from Bedtime Stories talking about my dad last Sunday that I'm very proud of. I'd love to hear what you think about it. When Chet saw the picture he said that he thought that it was me dressed up as a mad scientist. Funny, it's my favorite picture of my dad, it sits on this very desk, but I always thought of him as so much older than me. It's only now that I realize that the picture was taken three years before he died so he was 47. I'm 45.
