Hurry up...no, wait.

I looked at my son as he slept this morning. I just stopped and looked at him. He's eight right now, and I took him to his first big-league ballgame yesterday. Scott Kazmir was lights out. He struck out eleven and we got vouchers for free pizza because of it. He and his friend Brandon paid attention to parts of the game, but mostly they were concerned with what there was to eat and whether there were strings on the little blimp they fly around Tropicana Field, and where the mascot was.

And yet, I hope, this will be a memory that he cherishes. I sure will.

He's eight now, and when you have an eight-year-old, if you're going to be involved in his activities, it's like a job of its own. I'm going to be Cubmaster next year. And we have a chance to work some USF basketball games as a fundraiser. I said I would do that, too. And, of course, that's on top of the Bucs games we work for my daughter's swim team. And so on, and so on.

It's going to be another busy school year next year. My daughter's ride to school is moving to the Phillipines, which means either I drive her, or she gets on the bus at five minutes to six. School is about fourty-five minutes away. She's twelve and she bought her first gown yesterday, for her eighth-grade banquet next year.

And my son is eight right now. And he will never be eight again come October. And my daughter will never be a pre-teen again come next month. Some day I won't have to run around like a nut to support all their stuff.

Maybe the running around isn't so bad.