Milestones

It’s been hard watching Mayle move out. 

Both times. 

Still harder, is watching her grow older.  Each year, it feels, is another year away from me.  She grows up.  I grow older. 

Today she turns 21.  But to me, she’s still four years old trying to catch birds in the front yard, or singing “Whistle Man” to “This Old Man” in the backseat of the car.

I know my kids won’t stay little forever.  While it’s nice having a built-in baby, the built-in-ness ends with Max.  Technically, at three years old, Max isn’t a baby anymore. 

Who am I, if not a mother?  I’ve been one longer than I haven’t.

Knowing what her 21st birthday celebration would entail, we opted to celebrate her milestone on Sunday.  As she opened her cards and gift, I could still see a residual four-year-old Mayle with dark, playful eyes and thick, sturdy legs.  At four, she could be bought with music of the Spice Girls and a trip to the Apollo Theater to see the latest Disney movie. 

At 21, she’s outgrown both.  As she spends her youth looking ahead, I spend my advancing age looking back, wishing I could revisit an afternoon when it was just her and I, and this time enjoy it with abandon. 

Jarring me from this moment, of course, was life unscripted.  As we collectively sighed at the unexpected sweetness of boyfriend Wes’s gift, Stancey lazily injected her own commentary of, “How gay.” 

Each year is a gift.  And each year, in it’s own way, is the best year ever. 

Happy birthday, to my pixie.  To me, her birthday is most special.  My life changed for the better the day she was born.  And as soon as she recovers from what I assume will be the worst hangover of her young life, I think I’ll tell her that.