a new year, and a new year
Yesterday, on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, the Bee turned 9. We didn’t let her stay up till midnight to see the ball drop, but it did have a kind of doubly-celebratory feeling.
It’s so hard now to remember back to what life was like 9 years ago, especially when I think that 9 years from now, our day-to-day grind of parenting the Bee will be basically over—because she’ll be a college freshman (god willing). It’s funny to think that parenting has a half-way point—of course, I don’t actually believe that I’ll ever stop worrying about her, or loving her, or being her mom.
I am hoping that 9 years from now I won’t be dragging her butt out of bed every morning to get her ready on time, though.
In some ways, that day 9 years ago was the happiest day of my life. Having gotten through 36 hours of labor, I foolishly thought the hard part was over. And while none of the parenting that’s occurred over the past 9 years has been QUITE that physically taxing, you couldn’t really say it has been easy, either. Certainly not emotionally.
I was happy when the Potato was born too, but it was a happiness that was mixed with more worry—worry about how the Bee would deal with becoming a big sister, worry that I would have a hard time adjusting to being a mom of two (and knowing somewhat better what becoming a mom entailed than I did the first time). When the Bee was born, I was awash in happy ignorance. By the time the Potato came around, I knew better.
We had a relatively quiet day yesterday. Picked the kids up right after school for once, went out to dinner, saw my brother. But the Bee’s now-annual sleepover is being held this weekend, and she’s saving up her real partying for that night.
I remember, from my own childhood, that the older one gets, the less attractive it is to spend one’s birthday celebrating with one’s family. I don’t think she’s quite at that point yet, she’s still interested in having us around (although will utterly ignore us, I’m sure, when the 9-year-old posse arrrives, except to ask for food). But the day when we’re quietly irrelevant to her birthday is a little bit closer than it was last year.
It will never just be her birthday to me, though. It’s the day I was born as a mom.