Yesterday he asked me, “Can I go skydiving with Dad?” “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him,” I say. No way in hell would Dad sky dive. I wouldn’t either. I don’t even know if I’d go on a roller coaster anymore. That might have to do with my fear of wetting my pants than anything. Nobody comes out on the other end unscathed after having four kids. My bladder will attest to that. You owe me kids.
Peter has always been a thrill-seeker. The type of kid that opened the doors of moving cars and ran across parking lots without looking right or left or anywhere but straight ahead. I was convinced that he was born without peripheral vision. He’s better now, but that thrill-seeking gene is still the same. I guess it’s fair to call it a gene because I was once a thrill-seeker, riding Freefall at Six Flags and scaling Pin Oak trees as high as the branches would take me. Now I have Acrophobia and Claustrophobia and probably some other phobias that I'm not even aware of yet. Thankfully no Ephebiphobia, at least not when it comes to my own kids.
Here's a book Peter made in school. Maybe one day he'll be a paratrooper in the army. That way he wouldn't have to sacrifice work to skydive!