Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?

When I told my daughter that Poppy was going to be 68 today, her reaction was comical.

“Ew! Yucky!”


“I no like 68! Yuck!”

“But that’s how old he is.”

“No! No 68!”

“Okay, how old should he be?”

No hesitation. “Four!”

I’ll give her that. Four was an awesome age. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

“But so many good things happen when you get older. If I’d stayed four, I wouldn’t have you. If Poppy had stayed four, he wouldn’t have either of us.”

“Sixty-eight is yucky!”

I personally can’t speak for 68; I have a few years before I get there. But the ages I wouldn’t repeat are far behind me, and the ages I’m becoming keep getting better and better. So I have high hopes for 68. I hope it’s half as good for Poppy as my 40s have been for me.

Happy birthday, Dad.


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