If all goes as planned, my wife and I will have our house paid off in twenty-something years. We’ll each be inching our way towards the senior life, our hair grayer, our faces more wrinkled, our bodies and our wits perhaps not quite as quick as they once were, but hopefully not too far gone just yet. Aged though we may be at that point, we will hopefully have succeeded in bringing our long term debt to a close, at which point we will truly become home owners. The only problem is that we won’t get to enjoy it for very long.

Last year some time, my eldest son got really fixated on my age. Not my age actually, but the things that he himself was going to do when he reached my age. “When I’m 33,” he began many a sentence, and would then proceed to fill me in on his plans for that distant point in the future.

“…I’m going to drive a great big truck!”

“…I’m going to play the guitar!”

“…I’m going to go to work with you!”

After my birthday, he smoothly transitioned into listing the many accomplishments that his 34 year old self will tackle. Then one morning not long ago while I was buckling him into his car seat, he dropped a bit of unwelcome news on me.