We went swimming last week.  As I approached the desk, the woman attendant asked the age of my kids.

“Nine and eleven,” I said, marveling – how did they get so big?

She glanced at them and then said:

“Which one of you is nine?”

I didn’t look at my daughter.  I knew her face would reflect disappointment.  Having a brother who is tall is, in her mind, a real bummer.

I pointed at my son.

“He is,” I answered.

Later, if my daughter wants, I thought, she can express her frustration.  For now, let’s just get through the line and in the pool.



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