“How old are you?” the woman ringing up my mother’s groceries asked. This was years before scanners.
“I’m almost eight,” I answered, figuring that seven years and seven months was closer to eight than seven. In fact, the day after my half-birthday was the day I could officially bump my age to almost-the-next-year.
Decades later, my kids do the same thing. They can’t wait to be the next age, thinking each one will be bigger and better. I have two August babies, so when I think of birthdays, I immediately focus on this month. Their celebrations used to consume my summers; I flip through their baby books to refresh my memory, thankful for my slightly anal recording keeping.
We threw Gwen’s third birthday party in July because her brother was due the day before her birthday. We could have waited; James was seventeen days early.
Two years later, we celebrated with a puppy party for James and a rainbow party for Gwen. I made both invitations and both cakes, but that was before Pinterest upped the ante.
Four years later, I wised up and had James’ party at the pool. I got stupid again and threw Gwen a slumber party, with too many girls who stayed up late making pyramids in my family room.
The celebrations have ranged from laser tag to bowling, with themes as diverse as butterflies, superheroes, and dinosaurs. I used to go all Martha Stewart on a budget for at-home parties, and then I started writing checks and keeping the chaos out of my house.
After the party train ended for each child at birthday number ten, August became a tricky month for me. The birthdays were a one-two punch, reminding me that my babies were on the downhill side of their childhoods. After Gwen’s birthday each year, I try out their new ages on my tongue.
I said, “My kids are seven and four,” and had trouble believing they were so big.
I said, “My kids are thirteen and ten,” and marveled at the fact that they were both in double digits.
photo credit: Josh Barry
I said, “My kids are sixteen and thirteen,” astounded that I now had two teenagers.
Next week I will say “My kids are seventeen and fourteen,” although I feel like there is no way that can be possible. Gwen will be a legal adult next year, and headed off to college. This is where August assaults me, and I have to close the door on those thoughts for now.
For now.
I don’t remember when I stopped answering “I’m almost…” At twenty-one, maybe? Later, perhaps. Definitely by thirty. Age bumping is best left to the young.
Now, I will state my age as the correct number, even the day before my birthday. I will be that age until 11:59 p.m., and under no circumstances would I ever claim to be “almost” a year older. And while my children may still like to age bump, I will not rush into the next year. I will squeeze out every amazing drop of the ages they are now.
This is post is part of Finish the Sentence Friday, hosted by Kristi and co-hosted by Stacey and Mimi.
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