You're humming the tune to this song if:
- A. You (like me) have pre-teen girls in your house or--
- B. You just never got over Billy Ray Cyrus and now, you don't have to.
Yesterday, we opened a new chapter here on the Ark. My oldest, more commonly known as "The Boy", turned thirteen yesterday. (Don't worry, son, you won't see any photos of the day on the blog. I'm learning to respect the privacy that you suddenly seem to require more of these days.) It was a melancholy day, which contained, quite honestly, little time with the birthday celebrant. He was here after school and basketball practice for a few hours (to eat) before leaving for a scrimmage that wouldn't return him home until nearly 9:30 last night. I've seen it coming for a while now, but have chosen to try to ignore the signs--you know, things like:
- the not-so-subtle hints that perhaps his younger sisters would like to be my new grocery shopping helpers.
- the suggestion that we plan a "friends" birthday party falling on deaf ears.
- the need to walk just a little closer to the "guys" on the basketball team than to the family on the way out of the gym.
- the enormity of the embarrassment that comes simply from Mom or Dad's presence.
Thirteen years ago, when experienced mothers looked at brand new mom-me and my firstborn son, not a one of them left without saying, "They grow up so fast. Enjoy every moment of it." And I, the know-it-all new mom would nod seriously, looking at my innocent, helpless, eight pound boy and think to myself, "Yeah, right!"
Well, if thirteen years of parenting has taught me anything, it's that I don't know very much. They do grow up that fast. And I hope that if I've learned anything along the way it was to remember to enjoy every last bit right then and there--before I find myself closing chapters on books I've not yet finished.