The family of Lindsay’s boyfriend, Carson, joined us for the Fourth of July holiday weekend. Our eastern Pennsylvania visitors included, oldest to youngest, Chad, Carrie, Carson, and Griffin. Griffin is entering eighth grade and started the visit off with a bang—he marched in wearing a hideous Philadelphia 76ers hat. Tactical error on his part.
“Wow, you rep losers of your own free will and choice,” I said.
“We’re on the way up,” he said.
“To the nursing home,” I said. “Embiid is always broken, and Paul George is zooming downhill in his wheelchair.”
To the Smiths’ credit, they accompanied us to the home of Lauren’s cousin where we had the annual Greenslade Fourth of July celebration, which mostly involves eating burgers, downing Utah pudding, playing some corn hole, and going to the Plymouth fireworks. The Smiths were champs to do this. I have a hard enough time at my own family gatherings—if the Smiths take us to one of theirs, I might stick needles in my eyes. I’m sure their family is lovely since they are lovely, but many people over many hours gets to be . . . well, you know the joke about family being like fish, right?
The Smiths thrived, though, despite Griff wearing his Yankees hat to a diehard Red Sox fan’s home. They hit it off well when they found that the wife of Lauren’s cousin is from Erie, Pennsylvania, and has lots of family near the Smith home. Then, Chad jumped into the corn hole fray and put everyone to sleep. He took the crown from Uncle Bob and became a new Greenslade legend. After dark, we trooped down to the Plymouth waterfront and set up at Nelson Park, where we watched the fireworks shot off by a barge on the water.
The next morning, Griff started to pay his dues. His parents gave him up as a sacrifice, and I put him through a wrestling weightlifting workout followed by a short cardio cycle. It was all guaranteed to ensure the pain in his legs would remind him of all the joy he had at the Laws house even days after going home. In the afternoon, we went to Boston’s North End for one of our favorite activities—a pizza tour from Lauren’s brother’s company Boston Pizza Tours. Our tour guide, Al, was a full-blooded Italian from Providence who knew his Boston and Revolutionary history cold and was friends with all the Italian pastry chefs (“Guys! Meet Dominic! Sixth-generation Italian pasta chef—three generations in Italy and three in America!”). Lindsay promised that the Smiths would have the best pizza of their lives, and Ernesto’s delivered. Sorry, Sal’s of Athens, PA—there’s a new Smith family pizza champion. We capped the tour with a cannoli from Modern Pastry—another best-ever for the Smiths.
The next day, after a brutal cardio workout for Griffin, Carson, and Lindsay, we saw the Smiths off, and on Monday, our raging activity schedule took off again, as Graham headed to Maine for Church camp. With Lindsay working some mornings and every evening, that has left us to our own devices after work—as if all our kids have moved out. The preview to that life has been terrible. We’ve handled it so well that one or both of us have gone to Chick-Fil-A every night for dinner in order to see Lindsay, even if just for five minutes. Here’s Lindsay working the drive through outside and cosplaying as Bob the Builder.
I said to Lauren over dinner, “We’ve already hit lonely-grandmothering stage.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. We probably should have stopped at Walmart for some cat food.
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