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We have a twelve-year-old.

Max is TWELVE.  Twelve!

Saying it out loud makes Jac and I feel it in our bones but it was Max who said to Lucy on the morning of his golden birthday,

“I’m an old man, Lu!”

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Then he starts saying things like,

“I can’t believe I can drive in 2 years!”

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This afternoon he was itching to go to the bank to deposit some of his birthday cash and we were waiting for Lu to wake up.  I was folding laundry when we heard her stirring so he went to fetch her.  He came back to the living room with a diaper and wipes and changed a truly awful diaper (masterfully) with constant chatter and giggling aimed at his sister and nary a complaint.

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Last week, on the way to piano, he told me how he’s taken to starting his mornings.  “I do like the bishop suggested.  I say what St. Joan of Arc said to God: I don’t know if I’ll be here in a year, so do with me as you will.  Then I pray the consecration prayer and just think about my day.”

Really.

He’s a keeper, that one! Pretty glad he’s ours.

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