On the twenty first of September, our youngest turns thirty. As in years old. Which means her father and I are “getting up there.” We don’t really mind as long as our health remains good. Yet it’s tough to look at the baby in the family and realize she isn’t twelve any more.
Twelve was where we all stopped counting. Her older brother and sister insisted every birthday from twelve on was a repeat. She was bound to be twelve forever in their eyes, and I must admit, in the eyes of her parents as well. I guess we just didn’t want her to grow up.
“She can’t get a driver’s license,” her brother insisted. “She’s only twelve!” She flashed him a look that said don’t be so ridiculous and drove off.
“She can’t order a drink,” her sister groaned, yet she shook her head in disgust and ordered a glass of wine.
“She can’t have a baby,” her father and I gasped. “She IS the baby!” Yet, at thirty years old, our baby is soon to be a mother.
So, this Saturday, we will celebrate her birthday in Seattle by doing a little shopping for her and for the newest baby in the family. I’m ready to let go of the whole notion of her being the baby anyway and Lord knows it’s about time. The grandbabies, as we have already experienced with our one-year-old grandson, easily fill the gap in our hearts their parents left behind when they moved from home and on with their lives. And somehow it’s even better with grandkids; they fill our hearts till they overflow.
So, go ahead baby girl – turn thirty. It’s just a good thing you’ve got a replacement on the way!