How old are my children?
That wasn’t a simple question to answer when I was a young mother
writing this in my journal:
My children are nine and twelve, but you’ll never catch them
acting like it. One minute they are two and the next minute
they are twenty.
Take for example the green toenail. I can remember when my son was terrified at
the sight of his own blood. Now he lifts
his green toenail to show me what it looks like underneath – and watches me turn green! This is not normal behavior for a
nine-year-old, is it? Don’t
sixteen-year-olds do that sort of thing?
Don’t nine-year-olds just cry about a hurt toe and want mom to bandage
it? I am guessing. I really don’t know what a nine-year-old
would do. Mine doesn’t give me a clue.
My twelve-year-old daughter isn’t any better. Sometimes she’s age two and romping in the
woods, free of inhibitions, or screaming bathroom words at her brother. Then she might change in an instant and give
me motherly advice on handling my temper and show me how to style my hair with
mousse.
I’m not so ready to give up those childish, immature,
impossible moments. I’m standing on the
edge of a cliff looking down into the deep, dark unknown future – teenagers. And I can’t back up because there is a forest
fire behind me burning up the past at breakneck speed. But for now, one is nine and one is twelve –
and I’m 912 and getting grayer every minute!
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