Well you have all met The Overachiever, The Brainiac and The Athlete. Those are my girls. They live at home with me and The Entrepreneur. (That's the hubby. More on him later).
But there is another kid out there in the world that gives me my wrinkles. His name is Mr. Nice Guy. It's hard to believe Mr. Nice Guy is related to the other three siblings. They are big talkers. Mr. Nice Guy is a man of few words.
Even so, everywhere the girls go, people tell them they have met their brother. "We love Nate," they say.
"What a nice guy!"
He's made himself pretty scarce since moving out for good this summer. Getting away from all the females meant so much to him that he spent his own money on rent for the summer. He is a big fan of his leisure time. Last I checked he was majoring in frisbee golf and minoring in beer drinking.
Mr. Nice guy had some trouble growing up that still haunts him a little. I hate the labels, so let me put it to you this way: Mr. Nice Guy has some trouble with the details.
He flew off to New Hampshire to spend the week at a lake house with some buddies yesterday and I was a nervous wreck.
Would Mr. Nice Guy know that you have to put all the things that are more that three ounces in the little plastic bag? Would the boy who uses only cash have anything to put in the machine that spits out your ticket? Would he try to pack his Leatherman knife for Boy Scout lake-type purposes and be detained by airport officials?
Fortunately, and with some prodding, Mr. Nice Guy called me from the plane upon landing to let me know he made it there O.K. It made my heart go pitter-pat when he gave me the ILY in the middle of a plane full of strangers.
But now there is a whole new week of worry. Mr. Nice Guy is deathly allergic to Poison Ivy.