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Todd

Todd.

I don’t think we know anybody with that name.

Nor anyone by association.  Not grandparents.  Not close friends or far friends, preschool kids. Nobody.

Which doesn’t that mean it’s not a great name.  Or that I shouldn’t be flattered when my son grips my waist and whispers, “I love you, Todd.”

Todd.

Mommy.

One in the same.

Until last night, it’d been a while since I’d been Todd.  The phase had neatly tucked itself away.

Only to resurface as I creaked on both knees to hug my kids goodnight.

“I love you, Todd,” my son snickered.   My daughter’s laugh exploded from under the covers.  “I’ll pray for Todd,” she volunteered.

I suppressed a smile.  Then gave up and grinned.  “Thank you, honey,” I said.  “‘Cause Todd’s gonna need it.”

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