22 June 2013

by jkatejohnston

Dear Max,

Putting Enzo to bed just now:

Me: “Just think, only seven more nights of snuggling in this bed.” (He’s getting a bunkbed for his birthday.)

Enzo: “This bed will be here for a long time. When my children are grown, and I’ll be their dad. And you’ll probably be dead, because you’re pretty old for a mom.”

Me: “Maybe.”

Enzo: “How old will you be when I’m fifty-four?”

Me: “Let’s see. Ninety-two? So I’ll be really old. But I might still be alive. Probably.”

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