Our little wide-eyed, inquisitive child is now eighteen years old. This detail brings with it an assortment of dichotomies-how did this happen so quickly, in a flash she's grown, and how is every moment of being with her, recorded in every cell and molecule of our being? Our stomaches grow queazy at the many changes afoot, and all a flutter, excited for her, relishing in her success. In wistful moments, memories of her childhood come flooding, and yet she is a tide, forcing waves before her and we could not and would not hold her back.
We celebrated in our usual way around the table with favorite meal, cake (my white cake filled with raspberry and lemon curd, topped with a white chocolate butter frosting and fresh raspberries), and gifts. Ever the music lover, her special gifts included a birthday evening spent seeing Lady Lamb and the Beekeeper in concert, and tickets to see her much adored Sufjan Stevens next month.
It already looks like eighteen is going to be as, uh, energetic, as seventeen was for Olivia, and so I'm refining my napping techniques because whoa. (And you thought your sleepless parenting days were over once they hit toddlerhood? HOW'S IT FEEL TO BE WRONG?) Only this year will involve things like car juggling and passports. We're seriously so proud of her. Keep knocking us on our ass, kid. You've got this.
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