You’re in third grade now.  I just watched you do a half mile cross country run.  You and your partner, Anna Howard, worked really hard together. I was so proud. You went from an awkward shamble to an open stride.   You’ve still got a bad cough from the latest cold you’re getting over, but you kept pushing forward.

I don’t want you to ever think that I was ever good at sports.  I was built like you till the eighth grade.  For some reason I decided to do basketball, the coach ran my ass off all season, and I only ever scored one point, one free throw.  But it was enough to get me in shape for track for the first time.  Then I did track and cross country throughout high school.  I don’t know that I liked it, but it was something to belong to, and it kept me in shape until I got on the path to become the pear shaped man that I am today.

It's important to find things to be involved with, whether or not your good at them.  Sometimes it's just nice to find somewhere to belong.

It's good to see you giving Anna the time of day.  At one point I think she had a crush on you.  She made you the coolest hand drawn card for your birthday last year.  We've got it stashed somewhere.  Right now you share a love of dragons.  She seems genuinely kind.

I think I should note, should future Henry be reading this one day, that my mentioning of various girls in these notes is not to position them as pseudo girlfriends in some reductively heteronormative way.  You just don't hang out with a lot of boys.  It makes me realize how lucky I was as a kid to find Jon Lesner and Brian Erik's at your age.  We weren't super athletic.  Our play was verbal and imaginative.  You've had to turn to girls to find the same thing.

You’re part of the morning announcements crew at school.  You've been making lots of drawings for Ms Bailey.  Looking at her I would never have guessed that she’d be one of the teachers that you bonded with most closely,  big and stern, but it turns out you have a lot of things in common.

You were a bat monster for Halloween this year.  We'd talked about just buying Looney Toons costumes.  Maybe a year prior we’d binged the old cartoons on HBO.  When it came time to shop for them, there just weren’t any.  So you were a bat monster instead. The predator costume I made the year before was more impressive, but this may have been the most comfortable.  Right now we’re talking about both being Cup heads next year, costumes we can finally make together.

As I write this, you're next to me, deeply engrossed in a game of Monkey Tag on the Oculus, while I'm working on a project for Daz. The house is quiet, with your mom and sister asleep upstairs. In your virtual world, you're not just playing; you're Cerberus, once the loyal pet of the Canyon King. In a twist of fate, you've turned against him, armed with magic crystals, particularly one you've dubbed "The Nothing Crystal" – a mystical object that defies all laws of physics.

Defying the laws of physics is a thing for your right now.

I'll admit, my feelings towards the screens that have become a staple in your life are mixed. There's guilt, knowing we've introduced you to each one, and suspect a selfishness at our core as the reasons why. The pandemic, in my eyes, has stolen from you the kinds of imaginative play that colored my childhood.

Yet, witnessing moments like today, where the screen becomes a canvas for your imagination, it's clear that technology has, in some ways, bridged the gap left by the pandemic, offering you a different, yet rich, platform for creativity and play.

The landscape of your childhood friendships has been beautifully diverse. Unlike the band of boys I found kinship with over shared adventures, your circle includes a vibrant mix of friends. Selena was your first. Nowadays, names like Aubrey, Layli, and Anna Howard frequently surface in your stories. I recall w the tales of your strategic leaf ambushes.

Things are finally approaching normal. There have been challenges, and we've all gotten a little fat, your journey through these times is a story of adaptation, resilience, and the enduring power of imagination.