Post by lovinglebon on Jul 20, 2008 10:14:30 GMT -5
Happy b'day (and many more) to the ladies
Celebrate good times, c'mon. No, seriously. C'mon.
It's been a week of celebrations around the ol' home place — including the continued appreciation for our nation's independence, judging by the illegal fireworks my neighbors ignite each evening. Happy 20th, y'all!
A few days ago, my oldest niece celebrated her 13th birthday — entering her teens and triggering the knowing smirks and rueful head shakes that made me, at her age, long to kick adults in the knees.
I suppose I should start wearing shin guards around her, because it's all I can do not to pat her on the head and reminisce how I used to change her diapers and my, how time flies.
I know I've become a capital A "Adult" in her life, but I want to tell her that I remember 13 like it was yesterday.
I remember knowing, as sure as I knew that one day I'd marry the lead singer of Duran Duran and he'd lavish me with a lifetime of affection and slouch socks (Simon? Still waiting...), that grown-ups had no clue (and no taste in music).
I remember both craving attention and dying of embarrassment if I received it.
I want to welcome her to the "Look at Me, DON'T LOOK AT ME" years. Enjoy the awkward ride, sweetie! It does get better and boys will stop being complete morons in about 20 years or so.
My lovely niece celebrated her 13th birthday on the same day that my childhood friend, Julie, celebrated her 35th.
True fact: I've played Barbies with both of these ladies.
It's just as hard to believe that the same girl I spent the majority of my formative years passing notes to, and giggling about cute boys with, has hit her mid-30s. It's also hard to reconcile that with the fact that she looks at least 10 years younger, not that I'm keeping account of these things. Much.
Julie and I could tell my niece a thing or two about being 13, but both of our moms read this column, apparently, and it wouldn't do to give all our childhood secrets away.
Besides, it's doubtful that her generation will get in trouble for singing "Wild Boys" during gym, so our advice is probably worthless.
But our three decades of memories? They're priceless.
Rebecca Ross has all your embarrassing baby photos.
Celebrate good times, c'mon. No, seriously. C'mon.
It's been a week of celebrations around the ol' home place — including the continued appreciation for our nation's independence, judging by the illegal fireworks my neighbors ignite each evening. Happy 20th, y'all!
A few days ago, my oldest niece celebrated her 13th birthday — entering her teens and triggering the knowing smirks and rueful head shakes that made me, at her age, long to kick adults in the knees.
I suppose I should start wearing shin guards around her, because it's all I can do not to pat her on the head and reminisce how I used to change her diapers and my, how time flies.
I know I've become a capital A "Adult" in her life, but I want to tell her that I remember 13 like it was yesterday.
I remember knowing, as sure as I knew that one day I'd marry the lead singer of Duran Duran and he'd lavish me with a lifetime of affection and slouch socks (Simon? Still waiting...), that grown-ups had no clue (and no taste in music).
I remember both craving attention and dying of embarrassment if I received it.
I want to welcome her to the "Look at Me, DON'T LOOK AT ME" years. Enjoy the awkward ride, sweetie! It does get better and boys will stop being complete morons in about 20 years or so.
My lovely niece celebrated her 13th birthday on the same day that my childhood friend, Julie, celebrated her 35th.
True fact: I've played Barbies with both of these ladies.
It's just as hard to believe that the same girl I spent the majority of my formative years passing notes to, and giggling about cute boys with, has hit her mid-30s. It's also hard to reconcile that with the fact that she looks at least 10 years younger, not that I'm keeping account of these things. Much.
Julie and I could tell my niece a thing or two about being 13, but both of our moms read this column, apparently, and it wouldn't do to give all our childhood secrets away.
Besides, it's doubtful that her generation will get in trouble for singing "Wild Boys" during gym, so our advice is probably worthless.
But our three decades of memories? They're priceless.
Rebecca Ross has all your embarrassing baby photos.
