Thomas Beller is the author of two books of fiction, Seduction Theory, and The Sleep-Over Artist, and a collection of personal essays, How To Be a Man. The Sleep-Over Artist was a NY Times Notable Book, and a LA Times Best Book 2000. A former staff writer at the New Yorker Magazine and the Cambodia Daily, he is currently a contributing editor at Travel and Leisure Magazine. He founded and for twenty years co-edited Open City Magazine, and created the literary website about New York, Mrbellersneighborhood.com. He divides his time between New York and New Orleans, where he teaches writing at Tulane University.
Thomas Beller is author of the books two works of fiction, Seduction Theory, The Sleep-Over Artist, and an essay collection called How to Be A Man. He was a founder and editor of Open City Magazine, and of the literary web site devoted to New York City nonfiction, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. He contributes regularly to Travel and Leisure Magazine, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. He is currently working on a biography of J.D. Salinger, a novel, and essays. He teaches at Tulane University in New Orleans.
They’re always growing. They are always changing. As a parent, you are always with them, which makes it hard to notice, except now and then when it hits you: Their hair is longer. Their thoughts are more complicated. They are all grown up! They have gotten huge. At least, compared to the image you had of them.
But there is something else at work that complicates this process of perceiving your child’s development: your own development. They are on an escalator going up, but it’s not as though you are standing on the ground floor and not moving at all. You are moving, too. Though it is not clear in which direction. You are changing, and every now and then something happens to make you step outside of yourself and grasp that you occupy what once seemed like a strange, distant land: you are the grown-up. Herewith, several situations when this epiphany might occur:
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You find yourself under the table. Again.
By which I mean that you once enjoyed time under the table, when your parents took you to restaurants; it was a respite, a clubhouse, a source of entertainment. You are under the table again. Though now you are there because something — or someone— has fallen under the table and you have to go pick it/them up.
Photo credit: Flickr user areyoumyrik
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