Yesterday, I went to lunch with one of my coworkers. She and I live in the same area, but she’s relatively new to working in the area where our office is located, so I like to show her new places to eat from time to time.
Theresa is a mom, too, but she has an eight-year-old and a four-year-old, both of whom are attending summer school at Baby C’s school. She’s been an invaluable resource for me because (a) she’s doing this parenting thing and has two kids well past Baby C’s stage and (b) she’s been in the area in which we live for more than ten years and knows the area really well.
Anyway, as we were leaving the restaurant yesterday, I was saying how much Baby C has grown, but how much more growing he still has to do. This older gentleman overheard my statement and asked me, “Is he 16?”
“Pardon?” I asked.
“You were talking about your son having a lot of growing to do. I said the same thing to my son the other night, and he’s 16. How old is your son?”
I grinned. “Three months,” I replied, “so he’s got loads of growing left. But I think you’re referring to a different kind of growth in your son.”
It’s nice to know what I can expect in another 16 years or so.