Here we are again, on the brink of something new. Eleven. I find myself grasping ferociously at this year, holding on tight to your chidlhood even while you get ready to leave it behind.
That's what eleven feels like, on the parent side. The last year of real childhood. Eleven is followed by twelve, and that age scares me to death.
But we are not there yet. We are at eleven, and we are going to celebrate that.
Celebrate it with balloons and gifts and Calvin and Hobbes and steak.
Just as a side note: eleven is a really hard age to shop for. Especially when I've already made myself the promise that I won't purchase my children individual electronic equipment. So there are books and art supplies and the dreaded clothes. Bug, I'm sorry about the clothes.
But there was also dinner out, where you ordered the biggest T-bone steak on the menu. And you would have finished it, too, had the waitress not brought you ice cream for your birthday.
I think you made the right decision.
I must say, even though I'm starting to feel panicked at how fast the years are flying, about how you are no longer a little kid that I can entertain by silly singing and dancing and patty-cake, and even though I have absolutely no clue what I am doing, I must say: I like this age.
I like reading bigger, more exciting books with you. I like having our more involved conversations. I like your jokes and your sarcasm and your insight.
So, yes, here we are again. Another year that I enter (almost) without a clue. But I'm going to continue to do what has worked so far: enjoy and celebrate.