So two snow days has put a cramp on my blogging style, but you know what? I'm so thankful to be here. Two whole days at home. Honestly, I haven't even left the house.
I was watching my daughter eat breakfast and chat with my son this morning, and it occurred to me that I used to be scared--no, more like very worried--over the very age that she is.
She used to throw these tantrums when she was little. I can't even explain how I felt when she was screaming her head off, only that I felt the same way. Like I had no idea how to deal. What to say. How to discipline. Only screaming and yelling and kicking, except that I'm an adult, and while some feel this an acceptable way to carry oneself, I know better.
I used to wonder to myself what will she be like when she's thirteen...
And now I catch myself worrying about sixteen. Then twenty. Ditto twenty-one. And on. And on. And on.
Sitting in the kitchen, watching her play and chat and eat, I finally realized how silly it was for me to spend any time worrying at all. The age she is right now is great. We certainly have our moments, but overall, I risked giving myself a stomach ulcer and high blood pressure and wrinkly skin over nothing at all.
But isn't that like it is with most of the worrying we do?
They're outside playing in the snow right now. A huge snowball fight has begun, with the boys pitted against the girls, accompanied by much barbaric, uncivilized yelling. The girls have abandoned ship, and the boys are taking the respite as an opportunity to pack more snowballs for their arsenal. A peace has settled on my heart as I remember my cries from so long ago.
What will thirteen be like?
That lingering thought keeps making it's presence known, and this won't be the last time I acknowledge it, but for right now, when I worry over the next age milestone and the drama that may or may not accompany it, I can say this.
Sixteen will be pretty awesome, too. And twenty. Ditto twenty-one. And on. And on. And on.
Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?