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10 Years Old

Our oldest little calf has turned 10 years old. Holy moly! A decade. When he was born, Cowgrit and I were just in our early thirties, less than six years married.

I remember before we became preggers, my mom asked me if we were going to have children, and I responded with, “We’ve taken the goalie off the field.” She didn’t get the reference until my step-dad gave a hint or two.

When Cowgrit became pregnant, the doc calculated the day of birth at December 24. Well, our little Calfgrit was apparently quite comfortable where he was, and decided to stay put for another week and a half. When he finally came into the world, he was a beautiful baby. In fact, he was so beautiful, the hospital newborn photographer asked our permission, (after we made our photo purchasing decisions), to post a copy of his pic in her office as a sample.

His first week of life was pretty rough. But he got over it. He’s a healthy, happy, boy.

He loves to read, All. The. Time. Oh my god, he almost always has a book in his hands. We have to enforce a “No books at the dinner table” rule, else he forgets to eat. We also have to enforce no book in the bathroom – potty and bath – else he forgets to get up or wash. Now that he’s taking showers instead of baths, he actually once asked his little brother to hold a book just outside the shower so he could read it while washing.

He loves his quiet creative play time, too. Legos and action figures. This is where he’s a lot like I was at his age. (I didn’t start reading much until in my teens.) I watch him playing quietly with his toys on the floor in his room, and I remember my own such times. Different toys, different stories, but the core activity is all the same.

Seeing myself in him brings me both joy and worry. Maybe he’ll grow out of it.


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