“Mrs. G, your daughter needs glasses.” I sat in the adult-sized exam chair, feet straight out in front. The ophthalmologist held a stiff white piece of paper in his baseball mitt-like hands. He was the ugliest man I’d ever seen in my seven years of life. And the biggest. I was in second grade. I’d…
As I age, the number of candles on the cake become less important. The big milestones have passed. The first one is age ten – double digits. Then thirteen – the beginning of the teen years. Eighteen – adulthood. Twenty-one means I could vote and drink. Thirty indicates I’m no longer a kid. Forty, fifty,…