Today marks 21 years of marriage for FarmBoy and me. 21 years. Old enough to buy alcohol. Not old enough to rent a car. In 3 month I will have been married for half my life. That is mind boggling to me.
In the spring BabyGirl will graduate from high school. In the summer she will turn 18. There is talk of a job and an apartment. She's taking AP classes at school and can discuss Shakespeare with me. She's writing Comp papers and putting together presentations that would've left me gasping for air at her age. She has been dating a young man for more than a year and there is talk of a pending engagement. (Before you begin panicking and leaving messages of "she's too young, they need to wait, wail and moan, and gloom and doom" know that I am 100% OK with people getting married young. That's another post in it's self and I will deal with it when I see fit, or not, because let's be honest, I don't blog much anymore.) She's planning for community college and a career. She's planning for adulthood and growing up and things I have little to no say in. She has a vehicle and goes places unaccompanied (not often, but still). She is such a far cry from the BabyGirl who cried because her brother wasn't growing in her belly or chucked her shoes at me as I tried to drive her to school in the midst of an SPD meltdown. She's a young woman.
And it's killing me.
#1 Son got his class ring today. He's a Sophomore and has built an Adirondack Chair and welded things. He has his permit and begs to drive constantly. He's nearly 6'2" and outgrew his dad this time last year. He's studying geometry and reading Agatha Christie. He plays with the little kids at church and his tiny cousins and they all think he's a giant put on Earth to make them touch the ceiling. He helps his dad with the cattle, can cook dinner in a pinch, and is, hands down, my biggest helper around the house. He's going spelunking with his youth group this weekend and is super excited about it. He doesn't fit on my lap, can carry me easily if needs be, and is the most responsible of all the FarmHands at this point.
And it's killing me.
B.B. graduates 8th grade in the spring. He's playing basketball and had developed the oddest sense of humor. He spends his time reading, building LEGO sets, playing video games I don't understand, and watching hours up on hours of CW DC Universe television shows. He can talk for hours (literally) about The Flash, Arrow, or Tony Stark. He also plays with the little kids at church, who also think he's this super hero guy who will play chase with them for hours on end without getting tired. He is endlessly curious and mostly optimistic while being self depreciating at the same time. Next year he leaves my building for the high school.
And it's killing me.
Then there's Bitsy: tiny baby Bitsy who wasn't even a twinkle in my eye when I started blogging. Bitsy is officially a pre-teen. She's an 11 year old cheer leader who is mostly leg and mouth at the moment. She is rarely quiet, rarely still, and has a million questions she needed answered 10 minutes before she thought to ask them. She's loving junior high, except for math. She revels in having a locker and changing into gym clothes. She is one of only 3 6th grad girls at our school. She's the mother hen of the entire 10 6th graders we have in total. Next school year she'll be the only FarmHand left in my building. In 5 years she could be the only child we have left at home.
And it's killing me.
Did you catch the theme? Yeah, I'm not dealing well with the FarmHands growing up at the moment. Maybe it's because I'm 42. Maybe it's because FarmBoy and I have been married for 21 years. Maybe it's that we've lived in this house for 15 1/2 years. Maybe (most likely) it's because this could be the last year we really have a say in where BabyGirl spends her holidays. Maybe it's got nothing to do with any of that. Maybe my kids are just growing up faster than I ever thought possible. One moment I'm going crazy with all of the chaos in our house, all of the bodies and things and activities and I'm ready for them all to be grown and gone. The next I'm weeping over their "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments I've unpacked.
I know this is just a season I have to fight through. I'm not the first to do so. I won't be the last.
No comments:
Post a Comment