Last week, while I was out of town, my oldest found a book at the library. I wasn’t there when he discovered it, but from what my wife tells me, he immediately plopped down in the aisle to read it, and didn’t stop until he was at home and the book was finished.

I asked him about it at breakfast this morning. “Hey kiddo, Mom said you discovered a great book.”

“Yeah!” He ran to his room to get it. “It’s called Swordbird.”

He went on to describe the story and how they carried swords, and… well, I can’t remember all the details.

“Wow,” I said. “Who’s it by?”

He looked at the cover. “Nancy Yi Fan.” He flipped it over. “And she’s really young. Look!”

The back of the book featured a picture of the author. He was right. She did look young. I started to explain that sometimes pictures can make people look younger than they are, then read the jacket flap about the twelve-year-old author.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re right. She is young – only twelve years old.”

The boys looked at each other for a moment, and then at me. “Twelve?” my oldest said. He smiled and gave me a nod. “She’s totally crushing you.”

“What?”

His younger brother laughed. “By years,” he said, holding his hands out to show how long that was.

“No,” the big guy corrected. “Not just years, decades! She had a book published when she was twelve. That’s decades before daddy!”

Hmph.

No respect. That’s the problem here. No respect.