Happy 19th

Today is my son’s birthday. He is 19, which means that 19 years ago at this moment (3:52 in the afternoon), I was in labor at Shady Grove Hospital, with about two more hours before I would give birth to my first child. Time flies.

Always a Boy of Summer. 

My son is very passionate about politics. He’s a Bernie Sanders supporter and small donor, who just recently reconciled himself to the idea of voting for someone else in his first general election. He voted for Bernie in the Maryland primary, because he was still on the ballot, so at least he has that.

We had our usual politics chat today, with the Supreme Court’s DACA decision and John Bolton’s book as the main topics. We’re happy about DACA (but does Donald Trump ever miss a chance to dog-whistle the Second Amendment?)

My son worried aloud about the possibility that the Justice Department will suppress Bolton’s book. My take? Let them. The good parts have already leaked. And there are two kinds of people: The people who are not surprised at all about Bolton’s allegations; and the people who will support Trump no matter what Bolton or anyone else says about him. It won’t make any difference at all. Do you know when John Bolton might have made a difference? When he was actually still working for Trump. He could have testified at the impeachment trial. He could have done something, anything at all, when he was still in a position of power. He decided instead to hold out and publish a best-seller and retire a multi-millionaire. So even though I’m opposed in principle to suppressing a book that is critical of a sitting President, especially this President; I’m in favor of suppressing this particular book at this particular time because fuggedabout John Bolton.

*****
This was supposed to be about my son’s birthday, wasn’t it? And it is, kind of. As I said, he’s very passionate about politics and about the state of the world; and even as I try to tell him to think things through and not react so strongly and so emotionally to the outrage of the day or the hour, I know exactly where he gets it. The apple remains very close to the tree from which it fell 19 years ago. I hope that the next four years will be Trump-free; but even if that’s too much to hope for, I also hope for many more happy years for my beautiful son.