Today was a big day for the Paulsen boys.  A day of new beginnings.  Their first day of school in our new home town.  I would need to be on my game, but waking up and looking in the mirror, I had serious bags under my eyes.  I would need to muster up everything left in my tank and be supportive.  Plus, I would need to avoid embarrassing my children.  The avoiding embarrassing them would be hard for me.  I am hard wired to supply such embarrassing moments.  I consider myself an embarrassment master, but I would put that on the shelf.  I would help my boys quietly blend in.

Over the next hour or so, there were some tears and some vomit, but at least the vomit was clear (or so observes the experienced parent) and most of it made it into the backseat’s plastic bag (Really?  How do you miss the barf bag, when you are leaning over it?).  All in all, however, it was a step in the right direction and I managed to not act like an overly extrovert ass in my children’s new world.  Yep, the morning was a success and I had done well.

Heading to get a “pat on the back” latte, with an extra shot of espresso, the barista asked my name.  In a mumbling slurred and oh so tired fashion, I said, “Dave,” because after all that is my name.  Looking at me, she replied, “Steve?”  Sure, why not?  I had no energy left to resist.  For the rest of the day, I would be “Steve.”  I know plenty of great “Steves” and now I know that after a tiring voyage across the Atlantic, most “Davidsons” probably became “Stevensons,” as they stepped foot on Ellis Island.

Some people need a horrific event to join the Federal witness protection program, but I seem to be blessed to just mumble and sleepwalk my way into a great alias.  Who is Steve?  I am Steve.