Yesterday, as I drove Caroline to school, I told her, “Tomorrow is Daddy’s birthday”.
She asked, “How old is he going to be?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“OHHHH, FORTY-SEVEN!!!”
Why does she feel the need to prematurely age her parents by a decade? What have we ever done to her other than provide unconditional love and a steady supply of York Peppermint Patties?
Later in the day she asked, in a voice filled with concern, “Will Daddy still be able to wrestle with me even though he’s 47?” And I assured her that, in spite of his rapid approach to AARP membership, Daddy will still be able to wrestle.
Happy Birthday P. May you have many more years of getting knee-drops in the chest from your daughter. She is a delicate flower.
You’ve taught her well.
And you look great for 47. Love you.