My son, Paul, is really real. Even though he is only 8 years old. Sometimes we think he might qualify for one of those switched at birth stories because he is nothing like the rest of us. He doesn't like to read. Or get dressed. Or eat. Just popcorn, popsicles, and pizza. When we ask him a question he answers by making animal noises. Most every morning he wakes up singing. He is that happy. Once when we rushed him to the hospital for what we thought was an appendix attack and everyone was crying hysterically but Paul, he turned to us and said in great disgust, "Cut it out, you crybabies!" It must be hard for Paul to live with the rest of us because he has genuine joy and we have to work it up. Paul is really real.
When I stopped writing to just be with Paul, he made it so worthwhile. I almost forgot about the pretend people I'd put in a drawer. He taught me so many neat things that I might have overlooked if my head had remained in a book.