The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been. -- Madeleine L'Engle
We celebrated Little’s birthday this past week.
Little, unlike her mother, has never had a wish list of things she’d like to have or see or read or taste. Until this year. In the past, Little has always asked for “surprises.” Twelve, I guess, is different—or at least the beginning of different.
At 12, she wanted drums. And graphic tees. And iTunes gift cards. And Starbucks gift cards—because “it won’t be too long until you’ll let me walk there and meet MC--and they have good hot chocolate.” Um, no, I don’t see that happening. Right now, I can only imagine her walking there with me following at a reasonable distance (20 feet seems about right). Birthday dinners around here are usually homemade, ranging from steaks or salmon on the grill to tacos to shrimp and grits, but we almost always end with a homemade cake. But twelve is different. Little wanted to go out, downtown. And, so we did. You don’t have to make me a cake, Mom. We’ll just order dessert.
The Mister wisely suggested that Big might appreciate a homemade cake when he comes home for spring break, so we will celebrate his homecoming and Little’s birthday again.And we will use our traditional Happy Birthday tablecloth.
And no one will be too greedy.
And Big, Middle, and Little will get along just fine.
Because 12 is different.
But I don’t like it much so far.