My amazing daughter turned 18 yesterday. She has been looking forward to this milestone since her 17th birthday… probably feeling a bit antsy for the myth of freedom the milestone would bestow upon her. I tried to keep her feet on the ground by reminding her that we were NOT going to be throwing a party a-la My Super Sweet Sixteen (what a vomit-fest that is!), and she would NOT be experiencing any relaxing of the curfews or chore allotments… but she persisted, optimist that she is.
With my co-workers I made a sincere attempt to be distraut about her age. I dutifully connected the dots between my teenager’s special day and my own advancing years, and moaned about the increasing amount of gray I’m seeing when it’s past time to update my haircolor.
But you know what? I’m really not that freaked out about it at all. At least, not the “I’m getting so old!” part. My sagging triceps and the jowls I inherited from my Meemaw are there with no help from my teenagers. The most overwhelming responses I have to my darling baby daughter hitting 18 are fear, uncertainty, and regret.
I can’t believe that 18 years went by as quickly as they did. I didn’t do all the things with/for my daughter as I would have liked. Life gets in the way I guess. When she was little I couldn’t afford to put her in dance or piano lessons – both of which I think she would have enjoyed. She is very musical and has a beautiful voice, so I wish I’d been able to expose her to music in a more formal capacity early… I also haven’t traveled with her as much as I had hoped to.
Sometimes I get wiggy wondering if I have prepared her for the future as well as I could have. Of course, I have done what I can do… it’s up to her to make the best of it now.
Now, we just have to get her through her last semester of high school. Cross your fingers!!!!