Today, we will have the first of two memorial services for my son’s great grandmother, Barb Friend. He is eight years old. Between the testosterone and the inability to stand still for five minutes, I knew that I had to have a conversation with him about how he should behave during the services. As I began to explain that he is the very embodiment of his great grandmother’s pride and joy, I began to cry. People who know me well know that I don’t cry.