A couple of years ago, I read a story in this very newspaper about a man named Glen Mitchell. He lived in Jacksonville, Fla., and had a 13-year-old son named Jeff. One day Jeff was shot and killed by four boys while he was waiting for Glen to pick him up from school. One of the boys, Ellis Curry, later pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and spent 12 years in prison.
It was, without a doubt, the scariest moment of my life. One recent Saturday afternoon, Chloe and Cole asked for an apple after lunch. I went into the kitchen and cut an apple into eight pieces, then gave four of them to Chloe and four of them to Cole.
Chloe and Cole are special. Obviously I think they are, or I wouldn't bore you with stories about them week after week. But they're special for another reason: they're hybrids. Half of one thing, half of another, all of neither.
Shortly after Cole was born, I was holding him and watching Chloe play. I turned to Amy and said, "I know this is awful to say, but I wish he'd hurry up and grow up a little, so we can do more things with him like we do with Chloe."
Chloe is going through this stage where she wants to be first. When I take her and Cole to school, she wants to go inside before he does. When we're about to eat supper, she wants her plate before anyone else gets theirs. When she and Cole are taking medicine, she insists I give Cole his after she gets hers.
Chloe is fascinated by the steep hill we have in our backyard. She likes nothing more than to walk down it, then back up it, repeating the process several times over. I have to admit it helps in getting her tired out before bedtime, and I often use that to my advantage.