Tonight the Maker got his new basketball team jersey. He bounced out of the gym and into the car and announced: “My number is 12! One-two!” And he proudly showed off his shiny new shirt, it’s slippery netted surface glinting in the moonlight.
On the ride home, he expounded on the great good fortune of having received such a perfect number on his jersey. “It’s my age plus my age,” he explained.
We sighed, reveling in perfection. Then a new thought struck him. “Can I be twelve now, instead of six?” he asked.
It seemed like a reasonable request, but I prodded for the possible drawbacks. “Sure,” I replied amicably, “but what do you want, now that you’re twelve?”
He was ready for me. “Six more birthday cakes!” he cried.
You gotta watch six year olds. They’re tricky.
As we pulled into the garage, the Maker murmured wistfully, “I wish I had a birthday every single day. I’d have a lot of cakes by now. A thousand! A hundred million!”
But then he explored the possible drawbacks. “But that’s so many birthdays I’d be dead,” he reasoned, then added solemnly, “or as old as you.”
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