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Wide Awake and Feeling Mortal

The second sign came at one of my son’s Bantam hockey tournaments, when I found myself engaged in a spirited conversation about blues music and swing dancing with a lovely single lady. As I was looking for a segue to say, “How about a cup of coffee?”, Calvin’s defensive line-mate crashed the party like a hip-check into the boards: “Hey, Grandma, thanks for coming to our game,” as he gave her a hearty hug. The first sign was far more emasculating. Calvin and Paige screamed, “Higher, Daddy!” as I pushed them on the swing set at St. Paul’s Elementary school. I was darn near decapitated by my pendulous preschooler as I was distracted by Lee Iacocca’s latest temple to the soccer mom rolling slowl

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