Arm Pigs

Several years ago, my youngest daughter used to occasionally confuse individual words in common terms and phrases.  Two of my favorite examples: 1) lightning strikes, which she called lighting sharks, and 2) arm pits, which she called arm pigs.  Whenever the weather was dreadful, and there were lots of lighting sharks outside, we stayed inside and I tickled my daughter’s arm pigs.

I always attributed this, in part, to her vivid imagination.

Yesterday, this same daughter said, “Dad, you’re going to be 37 next month.”

She’s still our baby, yet has matured so much.  She makes astute observations that seem beyond a six-year-old in my opinion.  I nodded my head: “Yes, I am.”

“That’s pretty old.”

I looked at her with some amusement and thought about the 30 years that separated us.  The great divide.  While I could probably, and accurately, be described now as middle-aged, I could also concede that from her perspective, I was probably pretty old.  ”I guess it is old.”

She nodded her head matter-of-factly and turned her attention to something else for a moment.  She then turned back to me and said, “I’m surprised your hair isn’t white.”

I laughed a little bit.  My oldest daughter, who was at the table with us, then passed along some pre-teen wisdom: “That doesn’t usually happen until they are in their mid 40′s.”  I think they meant old people.  Like me.

They continued on a different conversation at that point, their old father forgotten momentarily.  I listened to them for a little bit.  Man…maybe 37 really is old.

Nah…it’s just right.