I thought turning forty earlier this year was rough, but when this long weekend is over, I’ll officially be mom to a teenager.
The Girl is turning 13.
In the few and far between quiet moments of my life, such as when I fill up the minivan with a fresh tank of gas, I’ve taken the time to contemplate this. It feels an awful lot like when I sent her off to first grade, which was harder than sending her off to Kindergarten because I knew she’d be gone all day, everyday. And now? She’s not a baby anymore. Not even close. It feels like another chapter has closed.
Look at that giant, pumpkin-headed baby. (At nine pounds, nine ounces, she was truly pumpkin sized. Biggest baby in the NICU!) “Pumpkin” quickly evolved into “Punkin” which degenerated into “Punk” or “Punky.” The nickname sticks to this day. (And no one is surprised that she’s taller than her mom already by at least two inches.)
My nostalgia has led me to dig up baby pictures in preparation for her birthday party. And lo and behold, I realized the kid was surrounded by promotional products practically from birth.
The screen printed onesie guarantees we’ll never forget where she was born. That digital thermometer came home with us as a parting gift. I’ve had to replace the battery, but it’s still with us, thirteen years later. I’m guessing it will still be in the medicine cabinet in another 13 years, long after The Girl has completely grown up and moved out for all day, everyday.
I’m going to enjoy 13 while it lasts. Happy Birthday, Punk.