Baby graduates
Time IS a tricky thing.
I feel like a twenty-something who weighs 30 pounds less than I actually do. I thought I had a few gray hairs until I counted more than six. I l look at Hubby and see my handsome groom, but in the morning, he'll rub his belly and complain about his expanding waistline.
Last week I attended my 13-year-old niece's eighth-grade graduation. As milestones go, it isn't the same as high school or college, sure. But it's close.
I feel like a twenty-something who weighs 30 pounds less than I actually do. I thought I had a few gray hairs until I counted more than six. I l look at Hubby and see my handsome groom, but in the morning, he'll rub his belly and complain about his expanding waistline.
Last week I attended my 13-year-old niece's eighth-grade graduation. As milestones go, it isn't the same as high school or college, sure. But it's close.
Lauren was as good as my own, the pretty chubby, no-neck baby who loved
being held, the talkative toddler who wore sneakers with her dresses,
the smart preschooler who started first grade at barely age 5.
There she is, smiling prettily under her green graduation cap, poised in a chic white bubble dress and silver high heels, accepting a scholarship for her impressive GPA, and congratulations from friends and admirers. She's off to tackle geometry and honors English in summer school, then high school.
I tell her my high school years were the best, that I made lifelong friends there, that I discovered what I stood for, what my weaknesses were, what I was happiest doing. I wish her all that and more.
I tell her about how happy she made me as an aunt, how singing her to sleep was an honor, and how peaceful it felt to hold her in my arms. I tell her how proud we are of her, and how her parents worked so hard to give her a good life. I tell her to be useful, to make her life matter.
I tell her time is a tricky thing, that I see her grow up but I don't feel any older. Where did the time go? In days spent in the playset her dad built for her and her sister, in holidays decked out in pretty dresses, in Sundays spent at Grandma's, in hours sitting in a darkened auditorium, beaming with pride, in summer days spent refereeing spats between her and her sister. Oh I know where all the time went.
To everything that has been, thanks. To everything that will be, yes.
There she is, smiling prettily under her green graduation cap, poised in a chic white bubble dress and silver high heels, accepting a scholarship for her impressive GPA, and congratulations from friends and admirers. She's off to tackle geometry and honors English in summer school, then high school.
I tell her my high school years were the best, that I made lifelong friends there, that I discovered what I stood for, what my weaknesses were, what I was happiest doing. I wish her all that and more.
I tell her about how happy she made me as an aunt, how singing her to sleep was an honor, and how peaceful it felt to hold her in my arms. I tell her how proud we are of her, and how her parents worked so hard to give her a good life. I tell her to be useful, to make her life matter.
I tell her time is a tricky thing, that I see her grow up but I don't feel any older. Where did the time go? In days spent in the playset her dad built for her and her sister, in holidays decked out in pretty dresses, in Sundays spent at Grandma's, in hours sitting in a darkened auditorium, beaming with pride, in summer days spent refereeing spats between her and her sister. Oh I know where all the time went.
To everything that has been, thanks. To everything that will be, yes.
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