Marking the dates

I am not a birthday person, at least not when it comes to my birthday. It seems little more than marking time, a celebration that I haven’t died yet. While there might be something to that, it doesn’t seem like there’s enough there to actually throw a celebration.

I concede that others hold opposing and equally valid opinions on the subject matter.

The other night, Becky and I were lying in bed when I turned to her and said, “In just a few days, we’ll be 25% of the way home.”

Pause.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“August 12th. We’ll be a quarter of the way done!”

“You mean she’ll be four and a half?”

“Yes! Isn’t that great?”

“You realize that when she turns 18, she’ll still be a senior in high school, right? Our circle of friends would likely really frown on us kicking her out of the house at that point.”

Well, of course, I didn’t mean that we would kick her out of the house on her emancipation day. I was just noting the passage of time. Obviously, child-rearing is a marathon with no finish line. For better or worse, there are also no grades and no scores. It’s not a game where you ever really know if you’re winning or not, and even if you were winning, well, just wait a while.

Perhaps I was noting this date because it’s one of the few tangible markers out there and I’m willing to grasp at most anything.

 

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