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Benjamin Franklin once stated, “Of two things you can be certain: death and taxes.” This is true. Nine years ago B and I managed to welcome into the world a set of twins that would forevermore celebrate their birthday on the very day taxes are due: April 15th. To date, they are happily oblivious of how this specific day can potentially afflict (or rescue) a particular American demographic.

They turned nine this year and as Maya repeatedly reminded me, “In one more year, I will be in the double digits!” I remember my own pre-double digit years, when each year passed with the comatose speed of a tortoise. Each month swelled and ballooned to 100 days instead of 30. At the age of 10, I looked forward to 13 with such relish — I was certain my life would dramatically change once I was a teen. It didn’t.

But that was then. Today, months and years speed past me at break-neck speeds, and I bemoan the passage of time as a precious and rare commodity. My daughters often argue, “You always say one year isn’t a long time. If that’s true, then why can’t I stay up one hour past my bedtime?” It’s hard to argue with that logic.

So, this past week as our girls pranced about with their friends and basked in the glow of happy childhood, I looked upon my husband, my son, and my daughters with gratitude for the unexpected joy they’ve brought into my life.

During the early dawn hours of their birthday, B sat beside me and cut and strung together stars and hearts made of glittery paper. We tied these to ribbons and hung them on our tree and around our house.

Sophie, 9, full of light and grace, accompanied by a purple balloon.

Nine, at last. 

Happy Birthday little flowers ♥