Who Knows Where the Time Goes
My journalistic and anthropological forays into her world, into the world of 21st century teens, began when she was 12. This marked the beginning of the Teenage Werewolf years, the rollercoaster years, the years of mood swings and eye rolling and deep sighing and door slamming and back-talking, of fierce combat and icy silences.
And that was just me.
No, I’m kidding.
That was my tween/teen . And me. Except for the door slamming and back-talking. I don’t do that. But let’s just say I made up for it in other ways.
Are those years over? Mostly, I think.
While I was living through the most intense of those werewolf years from 12 to say, 16 1/2 or 17, it felt like it a lifetime. Endless. Boundless. Tearful. Now her middle and high school years (she graduates a week from today) seem like a blur to me. As my husband and I sat in the audience a few nights ago and watched Lizzie be awarded a certificate of mastery in the culinary arts, I thought about how it was just a blink-of-an-eye ago that I bought her an EasyBake oven, and she made a batch of rock-hard cookies. As we sat through an assembly honoring varsity athletes, I remembered standing behind the cage watching Lizzie’s first throw at her first track meet in sixth grade. She was awesome even then. And “then” was, like, five minutes ago. Or so it seems.
Time is so damn weird. Clocks and calendars fool us into thinking it is progressive and logical and unvarying (except on Leap Year). But it is none of that. It is fast and slow. It stops. It accelerates. It goes backward. It jumps. I remember thinking I would never ever get out of high school. I would be there, stuck, forever. And then, miraculously, I wasn’t. I remember thinking I would never ever survive the werewolf years. And now, miraculous I have. We have.
Happy Birthday, Lizz.