Math has never been my thing. I can do simple arithmetic — two plus two stuff. Put a couple numbers together and see what comes of it.
Like this one: 8 + 8.
You know what that one is? It’s 16. Eight plus 8 equals 16.
SIXTEEN!
I came to this conclusion over Christmas break when my daughter turned — GASP! — 8.
She’s lived 8 years already. When she lives another 8 she will be … no, I can’t say it again. It’s too horrible. Too terrible. The big 1-6. The age. It’s just over yonder.
That’s been my reality the last couple weeks. Thinking about how my wife and I now have a daughter halfway there. It’s all psychological, of course. The damage caused when we get hung up on what we think numbers mean.
I remember when I was 6 looking up to some 8-year-old girls in my neighborhood. I shouldn’t say “looking up.” I should say “idolizing” or “dreaming about” or “drooling all over myself.” They were “big kid” girls. Older. Mature. Wise. And (as much as a 6-year-old knows something about this) super cute hotties.
“Man, I can’t wait until I’m 8,” I remember thinking. I was probably staring out the window. Head propped on my wrists. Sighing. Cooing. (I cooed!) Little pink hearts floating above my head.
Everything would be better when I was 8. Everything would seem different. I would get a mortgage. Start reading the newspaper over morning coffee. Start wearing suits and taking phone calls like this: “Yes, Jimmy. Certainly. I would be most interested in attending your birthday party. My secretary will add it to my social calendar … post-haste.”
Eight would be awesome! I would be OLD!
How could my little girl be that? How could she be someone a 6-year-old might look up to? The big kid on the block. Even worse, the CUTE kid on the block.
NO! NO! NO!
Bring back 7. Bring back 6. Stop the rolling of time. Or at least the rolling toward teen-hood.
But that’s the danger as a parent, isn’t it? Pushing them to grow up too fast. Or getting too hung up on how much they’ve already grown up. Forgetting to appreciate the age they are because we can’t get past the age they’re gonna’ be.
I have to remind myself she’s still that little girl. I have to keep sight of that. Not halfway to “the age.” Not the big kid to some star-struck 6-year-old in the neighborhood. Or at least, better not be. I’m going to talk to that cooing kid right now!