Thursday, February 17, 2011

Nineteen, Schmineteen





Today is The Prude’s baby’s 19th birthday.

He is mildly excited because he will get some favorite food, a few Facebook greetings, a cake of his choosing, and probably a few gift cards out of it.
But to him, 19 is not a milestone year.

6 was a milestone because it meant he needed both hands to count his age.
11 was also– two hands were not enough to contain finger/year correspondance.

13 of course entered teenhood.

16 meant driver’s license and dangling a sleepless mom on the end of a string as he caroused at Culver’s till 10 pm and  drove home ON HIS OWN.

18 of course means adulthood. Weird things with taxes.
Voting.

21 means further recognition of adulthood, a possibility of someone legally offering him some beers in spite of his mother’s scowling facial contortions.

And card manufacturers ensure that 30, 40 50 and 60 are greeted with their very own cards, people who throw you nerve-wracking surprise parties, and confetti that is available in each of the above nice round numbers to remind one that there are no longer enough fingers, toes or teeth to keep track of one's years.

65 is an arbitrary government introduced landmark and 75 is three-quarters of a century, and every single year after that is an astounding gift.

But 19?
Nothing special.

Except for his mother.
She has cherished every year and every milestone.
She has prayed countless prayers and given countless thanks.
She loves all 76 and ¾ inches of him.

Happy birthday, baby.
Nineteen is a wonderful number.

6 comments:

Wallydraigle said...

My goodness your babies were adorable.

I can't imagine a world in which mine turn 19. Does your head explode when this happens, or does the gradual year-by-year progression keep you from being too shocked by it all?

Happy birthday, Prude Baby!

Robin J. Steinweg said...

19. The last teen year.
18, the year the doctor no longer addresses you when asking health questions about your baby. Hello? I'm here! Ask me, I know all about him! I've done all but count the hairs on his head!

19. Yup, dear Prude, it's note-worthy.

Lori said...

Beautifully written, dear Prude. I shed a tear.
That Kaleb is 19 is hard to believe. He fits more comfortably in my mind as a 6-year-old.

beth BA said...

Robin and I think the same: 19 - the last year as a test-all-the-waters teenager. Next year, following the tradition of his older brothers, he will begin the road to matrimony by looking for a woman who loves his adorable dimples as much as she doesn't mind always looking up to him. :-)

Abbie Grace said...

Well, if you ever want a little boy around, you're free to take my brother!

Celeste said...

And at 25 you can rent a car.