The royal treatment

I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did it anyway. I watched the royal wedding of Harry and Meghan. And my macho self-esteem isn't afraid to admit it: I was completely swept away.

I laughed, I cried, I wanted that 1950 Rolls Royce Phantom IV.

I don't think I realized until I was viewing the ceremony how desperately I needed to see something positive and affirming, something that felt like a beginning and not the end. It was a long overdue (since January 20, 2017) counterpoint to the scandals, lies, shootings and injustices we're all inundated with on a daily basis.

There was something reassuring about British traditions that aren't being abandoned for their own sake, or to spite someone out of baseless prejudices. Traditions that've endured, despite the test of time, the horrors of war and the microscope of the occasional royal scandal.

The fact it was a biracial wedding, with a black, London-based gospel choir singing Stand By Me, and a black, Chicago bishop—Michael Curry—whose fiery and passionate sermon about the redemptive power of love made it one for the history books. Set against the stuffy yet tolerant British audience, reminded that diversity is something joyous to be embraced. Not for its own sake, but for the results it elicits.

The decency and rightness of it all. A country united and happy for them. Leadership that inspires love and admiration, even when there's strong political disagreement. A stark contrast to the hatred and divisiveness being peddled as the new normal here.

If you know anything about me, and really, you should know something about me by now, you know I usually think of weddings as a waste of a perfectly good Saturday.

But it sure was nice to feel that good and hopeful, at least for one day.

My kind of kid

As the kid lottery goes, I think I hit the jackpot. I have two extremely incredible kids who never cease to surprise and amaze me.

Like magicians, except with fewer bunny casualties.

I've already posted here about how crazy proud I am of the poem my daughter wrote. Now I want to relay a little anecdote about her brother.

My son is currently on a trip to Chicago with his school choir group. They have scheduled performances and competitions for the next few days. They also have plenty of extra time to tool around Chicago and take in what makes it such a great city.

Anyway, I was taking him to school yesterday, the day he was leaving, and he asks me the question I get almost every time I take him to school - "Can I play you a song?"

Now, when he asks, I immediately roll my eyes, let out a deep sigh and assume I'm going to be held hostage to one of the bands he likes that make me want to blow my brains out.

It's a very mature reaction to have in front of him. I'm nothing if not a role model.

So I said, "Sure, go ahead."

He plugs in his iPhone, hits play and out comes the last thing I would've expected: Sinatra singing My Kind Of Town.

I was smiling, but I felt like crying tears of joy. At how beautiful Sinatra's tone and phrasing are. How perfect a song choice it was. How much he loved surprising me with it.

And how much I'll miss him until he gets back Monday.