And Then They Are Grown

The daughter is grown. I'm happy for her but I hate it. She lives in another city and I miss her. She's very smart but I am certain that she could use my advice more often than she asks.

The baby is off at college. Sort of grown. I'm proud of both of them but I hate it.

Most of my friends' children are grown or on the cusp. Yes, I hate it. I want their little giggles and snugly bodies. I would even take back the teenage years when some things got dicey. I keep telling my friend Debbie (who still has young children,) "Don't Blink!"

One of my favorite people in the world is celebrating a birthday. I was honored to be invited to join him and his parents on Saturday. We sat outside on a beautiful evening and enjoyed a great Italian meal. He lives in Chicago now. He's all grown up. (I hate it.) But, in my mind, he's that little boy I met many years ago. He's the teenager who got in occasional trouble. He's the one who confided in me about various escapades.

I walked into the restaurant on Saturday and was immediately embraced. I said, "Benny Bear, the Birthday Boy!" He said, "You are the only person I would allow to get away with that."

He's all grown up. I hate it.