Happy birthday, little one!
Nope … hold on … something’s not right …
Happy birthday, kid!
No, check that …
Let’s try: Happy birthday, short stack!
That’s definitely not it. She’s almost as tall as me.
Maybe: Little missy? Or Strawberry shortcake? Wee widdle one? Precious peanut? Ye’ who spent all my money on diapers? Baby boo-boo?
Oh, no. None of them are right. None of them work for a daughter who turned 16 today. Sixteen! Can you imagine such a thing? About the only one that works – the only possible option! – is the unthinkable one. The one I can’t fathom saying. The one that curdles the lips and twists the tongue into knots. It will crumple my soul to hear it out loud. Can I even say it, this crime upon the ears?
Happy birthday, young lady.
No! NO!!! NOOOOO!!!!!
Oh, wow. Just blacked out there for a while. Dreamed of horrible things. Like wedding dances and grandchildren kicking me in the shins while calling me “Pop-Pop McPoopie-pants.”
Can it be? My daughter is a … gasp! … lady?
Strange how we can still see people one way – like wee little girls – but the minute we assign something like an age, it forces us to look at them just a bit differently. For who they really are, or are starting to become.
And the math messes with ours heads. The numbers start to spin all kinds of new things to ponder. Like how 16 is four years into the teenage years, and only four years from getting out, and into the 20s. The 20s! How can that be a real thing, and so close by?
That the state, in all its infinite bureaucratic wisdom, picked this number for assuming their cerebral cortex, or whatever controls stuff, is ripe enough to let them drive about on their own. On real city streets. In a real car – not a fake one. Or a golf cart. Just go wherever they please. Like Cincinnati, if they want. Which makes perfect sense, because she can still get lost going to the kitchen some mornings. So, drive like the wind, young lady.
No, that still sounds so weird …
People keep asking how I’m doing with all of this. Because 16, for some reason, is a milestone year. Society places so much significance on it. We call it a “rite of passage.” We say it marks a girl’s “coming of age.” We acknowledge you’re not quite an adult yet, but allow a bunch of adult-like responsibilities like getting a job or driving, or telling your parents just how incredibly stupid they are.
Some Web site I looked up characterized 16 like this: “a celebration of womanhood (that) marks the end of a girl’s childhood.”
What?!? A celebration of womanhood? The end of childhood!?! I know the First Amendment is important, but why is such blasphemy even allowed to be published?
That’s heavy. That hits where it hurts.
How am I doing with all of this? I guess OK. Resigned. Trying to figure out what it all means. Why things have to change. Why people have to do something so dumb as grow up. What is that, biology or something? I didn’t do well in the subject.
I see things getting more and more different already. We have strange conversations that sound like two adults talking. She tells me about stuff she learned in psychology class, and I pretend that my degrees and years in higher education mean I somehow understand. She talks about needing to save the polar icecaps, and how she finally realized where Canada is. And that it’s not another state!
Even the Christmas list this year evolved and matured to a point where I could barely recognize it. It was loaded down with requests for donations to the Humane Society, the Sierra Club and any organization that was up for physically harming poachers.
She wanted hiking back packs and bracelets and clothes. Expensive clothes! And of course, gift cards to Amazon and Nordstrom. It was a refined list, carefully thought out, and devoid of toys. It didn’t scream “little girl.” It told the story of a young lady.
Someone who might approach you and say things like, “Hello father. How was your day today? That is good to hear. I closed on a mortgage with my husband. How about that? We will move into our new house in three weeks … with our children! Oh, those boys, you know? Remember when I was that little and naïve and thought the world pretty much revolved around gummy bears and you. How stupid I was? But now I’ve grown up, and you’ve passed out on the floor again. Boys! Throw some water on Pop-pop and kick him in the shins.”
No! Snap out of it.
She’s only 16. There’s lots of child left in her. Thankfully, a lot of play. A longing to hold onto who she is. Who she was. To not grow up too fast. To get swept up into it all. That’s the rub of life, isn’t it? We’re in such a hurry to get somewhere that we often forget to enjoy the moment we’re in, or reflect on the past. But I sense a lack of urgency in her. A contentment for right where she is, and not racing ahead. That makes me feel better. I’m still not all right with saying, “Happy birthday, young lady!” but I guess I better get used to it. Along with her getting a license and hitting the roads … for Cincinnati.