Last night our younger two girlies piled into my bed to read a chapter of Little Town on the Prairie, a luxury often squeezed out on week night evenings because of basketball or homework.
(We finally arrived at the chapter where Laura gets to ride in Almonzo Wilder's new buggy, behind his beautiful Morgan horses, and they, gasp, exchange name cards! It was a moment we've been waiting several books for! Everyone knows Laura will eventually marry the Farmer Boy from New York introduced in third installment of the series, in his very own book even; but it seems an awfully long time coming ... all the while we've grown more attached to the "young Wilder" who saves DeSmett from starvation. We've also been ponderinghow Laura would navigate this relationship despite his mean and bossy old sister, who made Laura's life at school so miserable.)
While snuggled, I nodded toward the chubby cherib on my wall and asked, "Hey, where did that baby go?"
"Mom," my middle (who would turns eleven today) replied evenly, "You make me feel bad about getting older."
I don't want to maker her feel bad. And I told her that. But really, how did she become eleven ... nearly overnight?
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