Right up there…yeah. Me. Today. And my 22 year old isn’t even my oldest child. However, she and my oldest child are actually both 22 right now. Weird? No weirder than finding out that I was 10 weeks pregnant and had a 3 month old. *I see you doing the math* I cried steadily the next few months after this discovery. From hormones, shock or fear…or all of the above. But God, in His Gibbs-head-slap-way, snapped me out of the woe is me junk when I went into serious preterm labor with little Miss at 21 weeks into my pregnancy. Nothing makes one realize how much one wants something than when one is just about ready to lose it.
My Girl was born exactly 11 months and 1 day after our oldest child, The Big (Graduate) Boy. She was 4 weeks early and perfectly healthy and beautiful. If you think a skinny, meatless squawker is beautiful. Which, of course, we did. The Big (Graduate) Boy wasn’t even walking yet. He was doing that buttupintheaircrabcrawlingthing. He didn’t have much interest in his baby sister. He was pretty independent, thankfully. Still is. *not so thankfully says this control freak momma who just does not want to let go of the strings*
Birthday number twenty-two is sort of an “eh” birthday. She hasn’t made a big deal of it and, truthfully, neither have I. In all honesty, I’m more wigged out about the fact that in exactly one-hundred nineteen days, my baby will begin his first day of his last year of high school. Or as I like to call it, “this can’t be happening to me and let’s adopt a child” day. I actually said that to My Man the other day while he was driving. After he wrestled the truck back onto the road from our near death experience, he began to laugh. And continued to laugh for quite awhile. Suddenly he looked at me and said, “you canNOT be serious.” No. I wasn’t. I just wanted to see his reaction. It was worth nearly dying for.
Love you, Sarah. xxoo