“And how many brothers and sisters do you have?” the doctor asked Garrett during a recent trip to the clinic.
“Four,” he answered nonchalantly, “a brother and three sisters.”
“Four?” the doctor asked quizzically looking at me with a raised eyebrow.
Having raised two of them, I’ve mended my share of scrapes, dug rocks out of pants pockets before laundry, refereed my share of tussles, and on numerous occasions stopped my oldest son from feeding his younger brother an appetizer that would have involved bugs or an amphibious animal of some kind.
As I looked at my son, jamming out to Nickleback’s hit song “Photograph” alongside his buddy at the Fargodome Sunday night, I was instantly transported back some 25 years in time to another rock concert just about this time of year but just a bit farther west in town.
My dear little Bug,
Can it possibly be true? This past week I turned around, and inexplicably, my baby boy had turned into a 9-year-old little man who stands two-thirds my height and seems closer to adulthood than he does his days in diapers.
It seems our family’s favorite outdoor memories come from times when someone’s left some skin on the ground, a sacrifice to Mother Nature who likes to remind us that we can enjoy her woods, her rivers and lakes and even her snow-covered hills, but we should never get too comfortable.
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