Another birthday, another day closer to death

Image courtesy of The Suburban Crab archives

Image courtesy of The Suburban Crab archives

Someone once told me that you never feel as old as when your kids celebrate another birthday.

Well, Boof just turned 15 on Friday. Imagine how I’m feeling now.

That sense of speeding toward your death doesn’t hit you those first couple of kid birthdays. You just feel joy and wonder: I can’t believe he’s turning 1! Or: She’s 2 today! She’s such a big girl!

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Fighting for his right to party?

Boof went to a party this past weekend. At a bar.

Photo from Gabe McIntyre (gabemac) via Flickr

Photo from Gabe McIntyre (gabemac) via Flickr

I don’t know whether this is just a trend in our region or if it’s also happening in other locales where there’s a prevalence of pampered teens with disposable income (i.e., spending money from Mom and Dad) and a misguided belief that having a social life is a right, but some venues around here are apparently making a killing hosting “teen nights.” Open only to high school kids, these events from my understanding are essentially meat markets for the Under 21 set.

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Desperately seeking my inner scary mom

Image from meme.tn

Image from meme.tn

A friend texted me the following in response to my last post:

Boof is funny, although when we were kids, if we went in my parents’ room without their written consent, my mom would have killed us. Like for real, kill.

I was tickled when I got the text, because it was exactly the same way for me when I was growing up. (I wasn’t alone!) My mom loosened up a bit as my brother and I got older—theirs was the only room that had a full-length mirror, so from time to time she magnanimously allowed us to step in to use it—but the general understanding was “You will stay out of our room unless otherwise invited in… but don’t expect to ever be invited in.”

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Seriously, stay out of my room

Billup used to spend a lot of time inviting herself into our bed. At three in the morning, she’d come padding into our room, pull back the corner of the covers and shove herself in next to me, all without slowing her pace. I’d end up wedged between Ted and Billup or, more often, tiredly decamping to Billup’s abandoned bed. Sure, her sheets were often oddly sandy, but at least there I had space to roll over without bumping into anybody.

Original photo from cheezburger.com

Original photo from cheezburger.com

She finally stopped a couple of years ago, but early mornings and bedtime remained fair game. Every morning, like clockwork, she’d come padding in at dawn and invade our warm blankets with her physical presence and unflagging desire for conversation. At night, I’d be reading in bed when the sound of her bare feet outside the bedroom would suddenly announce her presence. I’d barely have a chance to look up from my book before she’d slide herself into Ted’s empty side of the bed, ahhh-ing loudly. She’d cheerfully announce, “I’m going to sleep here, OK?”, her voice rising at the end as if asking a question—but we both understood it was only a rhetorical one.

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