When I was a teenager, that would’ve been the furthest thing from my mind.
In my 20s, especially before we got married, kids were a distant thing on the horizon, at least until we decided we wanted them.
In my 30s, when I had those kids, when they were small, the teenage years still seemed comfortably far away.
Now, not so much.
16, closing in on 14, and just turned 12. Two-teen, right?
Okay, I’m reaching. But why is it necessary on each of my children’s birthday that I’m the one feels old? It’s a parent thing, I guess. I’m always nostalgic on my children’s birthdays. I especially feel it today. My littlest baby is a dozen years old. And she’s incredible.
And while I can’t wait to see how she turns out, I’m entirely fine if she stops growing up, too. Well, not really. I love her so much for who she is, but I won’t hold her back from who she’s becoming.
Happy birthday, Youngest. You are an awesome girl, and you will become an awesome woman.