Rachael turned ten yesterday. Ten. We had her party on Monday since there was no school. The girls had a great time gliding around the local ice rink, stopping only for the briefest nod to cake and presents. I stood and watched, freezing and dwelling on the surreal nature of it all. (Sorry about the dark photo–it was taken in terrible lighting through a pane of glass.)
How could this be the tenth birthday party I’ve thrown for my little daughter? I remember her first birthday party in our tiny apartment in Lake Oswego. It really doesn’t seem like that long ago. And in another ten years, it’s possible (though not probable, I hope) that she could be married! If you know me, you know I was flirting with depression by now, thinking such thoughts, until something wonderful happened. Ethan threw a major fit.
A full-blown, MacDaddy humdinger. I scolded, I threatened, I gripped, I swatted, I yelled. And right then, the epiphany hit me harder than my son hits his sisters: Older Kids Are Easier. They’re more interesting to talk to, require less physically, and show you some results for your many years of parenting. In sum, with older children, you get more bang for your buck.
Don’t get me wrong. I am in no hurry for Ethan to age; in fact, I’ve spent many moons wishing I could slow down time and enjoy my wee ones a bit longer. But then, on days like today, I wonder: what if my wish came true, and they stayed three forever? Oh, I’m so thankful I don’t have magic powers. (Yet. I’m not giving up.) I suppose that children growing up too fast beats the alternative: permanent toddlers.
This may sound like a sour attitude toward toddlers, but what I mean to convey is an optimistic outlook about the inevitability of change, especially within our families. I’m still sad that my kids are growing up, and probably always will be. When they’re thirty, I’ll mourn that they are no longer twenty. But there’s not a single thing I can do about it, so I’d better learn to just enjoy.
And having said all this, I will also say that I am thrilled with the way my not-so-little Rachael has turned out so far. A perfect ten, if you ask me. I am not kidding or just blogbragging (blagging? brogging?). She’s pretty fantastic.
As was the cake Aunt Julie whipped up for her. Hooray for talented sisters!