My husband Jon and I are both oldest children. All of our parents are oldest children, as well. This means that when our daughter Hannah was born she was not only our first child, she was also the first grandchild and the first great-grandchild on all sides.
She was, in short, The Baby. She immediately became the first direct descendent in a decade or two, and the first niece and nephew for our siblings. Her baby pictures tell the story.
The past 12 years have flown by. The Baby has been joined by one younger brother, five first cousins, and a whole bunch of second cousins (there are at least eight, but I may be forgetting someone). She is not so little anymore. The tiny 5lb 4oz bundle who arrived six weeks ahead of schedule is now a middle schooler with dreams and ambitions and friends and opinions that she can – and does – articulate. She is a tween who has her own Instagram account and communicates with me via text messages. She has grown from The Baby to The Babysitter and she has the Red Cross certificate to prove it.
This feels like a big deal to me. I remember being 12 years old. And not in the way I remember being six years old – with a sort of fuzzy around the edges nostalgia. I remember the angst of being 12, the social drama, the projects I worked on in school, the boys I had crushes on, the sleepovers at my friends’ houses, the bad poetry I wrote, getting my first job as a babysitter, and on and on and on. I was younger and more earnest, but I was me. I really came into myself that year in so many ways, and I see that happening for Hannah right now. And even as I’m tickled pink I’m overcome by the bitter sweetness of parenting.
I’m working myself out of a job. It’s both fantastic and heartbreaking. But it was always meant to be this way, and I knew that, and I can only embrace it. I actually do embrace it. Because this person that my daughter has become is pretty freaking amazing.
Happy birthday to my girl.