Tuck ate his last piece of birthday cake. It was turned backwards on his plate, so the 6 was upside down: a 9.
"Ha. Look. I'm nine." Quick wit on occasion, that boy.
"Tuck, you'll be a great 9-year-old. That will be good year. And 7 and 8. But let's do six. I like six."
"I do, too."
"I liked every year differently, Tuck. Well, 31 didn't turn out so well."
My mom chimed in. "Neither did my 29," her age when her dad died.
"But how old are you now, Mommy?"
"32 will be good, Mommy. It will be better. I'm holding out for 32."
Good call. Fingers crossed.