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Eight Years Late

eightyearslatesmall

eightyearslatemain
Quickly leaving the Wal-Mart parking lot in my oh-so-ugly peeling-paint light-blue Dodge Caravan, I had the birthday party supplies and seven-year-old in tow. Another eighth birthday-party planning and supply purchasing mission complete. I had done this before. This would be the forth, and the last, eight-year-old birthday party I would ever throw. Breathe.

The dark curly hair in my rear-view mirror was about the only thing that indicated I was not alone … until he spoke up.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“I never had a birthday before.”

Silence.

That was over ten years ago. I was preparing to host the first Canadian birthday party for my fairly newly adopted Brazilean son, Wallace. With only eight months of parenting him under my belt, and only a few of those hearing him speak English rather than mostly-mysterious Portuguese, I was learning something new almost every day. This was unexpected though.

[Read the rest of the article at Ungrind Webzine.]

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