My daughter turned twenty today - Tuesday - and I'm totally cool with it. Unlike my mother who gets very, um, emotional - yeah, let's call it that - whenever I hit an age with a zero at the end. Why? Because SHE will hit a 20-year higher age about 10 weeks later. Least I think that's why. Me turning twenty meant she'd turn - gasp! - 40! She wouldn't let Kelly and I look at her wrist-band at the eye surgeon's yesterday because it had her age on it. God forbid anyone saw that number, even though Kelly and I both knew exactly what that was.
I tuned 45 last June. Laura turned 20 today. And I think that's just fine. I've earned every gray hair on my head, every wrinkle on my face. I'll even claim the saggy parts, creaky bits, and faint age-spots slowly darkening on the back of my hands. I've never understood why someone's age is shameful or a big secret. It's just a number. My mother bawled when *I* turned 30. For me, it was just another birthday. Same with 25. 40. 45. Every age. My daughter's birthdays, however, are a different story for me. They're happy, cheerful, delightful days. I made her favorite skillet chicken-tomato-pasta dish for supper, baked her favorite lemon-poppyseed cake, bought her favorite cookies and cream ice cream. She even got to open a present she really wanted - picked it up while I was in Des Moines yesterday. We teased her all day about 'Happy GroundHog Day!' - which we always do. Laura's birthdays rock!
Two decades ago I gave birth to a remarkable, amazing, brilliant, funny, beautiful, creative, kind, intelligent, sweet, gorgeous, and much loved human being. She's twenty, all grown up, and we couldn't be more proud. Hope you had a great birthday, punkin!