Teenage

I am now the father of a teen.  Now, for a lively season, her age will end with the suffix “-teen”, as in “six-teen going on seven-teen.”

Thankfully, we’re only at thir-teen.

I remember when she was just thir.

Physically, she’s a teen.  Cognitively, she’s certainly not.  We know that.  She doesn’t.  As far as she’s concerned, some people came over (about 50) and sang Wheels on the Bus upon request since, after all, she is the birthday girl.  Several toys and gifts were given, thanks to the kindness of family and friends, and more Wheels on the Bus.

She knows what she wants.

So we gave her that.  Well, I should say that Emily gave her that, and I was there to move things and sweep.  Many friends brought over auxiliary vegetables and copious amounts of water, some cheese and crackers, and the like.  It was, as they say, a party.  Par-tay.

She’s 13.  I can’t believe it.

I remember when the social worker told us she’d never drive, she’d never live on her own, and that our expectations should be realistic.  A doctor told us she may never walk.  Well, Wheels on the Bus to that, I’d say.

There’s more, much more to be said and thought and thankful for.  But today, I simply say: Happy Birthday, Lexi.  Your dad loves you a whole bunch.

 

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