GateHouse – These days, and for about the past month or so, my son has wanted as little to do with me as he can get away with and still live indoors and enjoy semi-regular meals.

It is, on most days, as though I’m invisible, not even the room, not even in the house, some sort of immaterial, vaporous presence who is never seen nor heard but who is responsible for opening the Play-Doh and washing the pee out of things. I am regarded as he regards all things that are not his trains or something that can immediately get him ice cream. I am, on most days, some tall punk who’s basically between him and an ice-cold bottle of apple juice.

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