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My youngest child Christopher turned 9 years old yesterday. Happy Birthday son. I love his amazing eyes. I never get tired of looking at them. The sore on his face is healing up after he fell on his brother (that’s the excuse I got. dot dot dot).
He also looks a bit tired as he and his older brother stayed up talking late into the night before. My guess is that they were totally stoked about the Wii he got for his birthday.
He was almost born on his sister’s 12th birthday exactly one weeks earlier as I went into labor at her birthday party. Luckily the contractions stopped and we finished out her party.
This past Tuesday my wonderful, beautiful smart daughter who just got her first 401k, turned 21 years old. I desperately wanted to spend it with her but she is thousand of miles away living in another state. Yeah. In another state. Understatement of the evening.
Besides, this is the kind of milestone you don’t spend with your mother. Except we do have a pretty close relationship so it would totally be cool. Which explains the text conversation bellow.
In her oh-so-reasonable manner she waited until the weekend to go out to a bar and order her first drink so she would not be hung over at work the next day. She also had the forethought to designate a driver.
So I’m walking around the local mall earlier and start getting text messages (Note: The times shown are for her time zone. I am several times zones earlier than her. Typo are left in):
Oh my poor child. What have you done? I suppose it is the lesson we all have to learn the hard way and she has always been the type of person who needed to find out on her own. I guess this child had to go all the way to extreme.
I suspect I’ll get a phone call in a few days telling me how she never made in to the front door but just fell out of the car on to the front lawn because she had to hold on to the grass so she wouldn’t fall off the earth. Oh wait, that was my memory.
Anyway, I’m just sad I won’t be there to bang on some pots and pans to really drive the experience home for her.
They don’t call that kind of alcohol ‘hards’ for nothing my dear.