Clare's Dad

When I was a kid, my Mom had a friend who called me the “baby” long after I was out of diapers, walking, and off to school.  I clearly remember running into her one day at the grocery store with my Mom.  She looked at me, looked at my Mom, and said, “Is this the baby?!!!”

No, lady, the baby’s at home in the crib and my Mom’s tagging around some strange six-and-a-half year-old.

“It is,” my Mom said.  ”He’s almost seven.”

On Tuesday, I took Clare with me to vote.  We walked into the back of the middle school (our voting location), stepped up to the check-in table (there was no line), and the woman sitting there was my Mom’s old friend.  We don’t see each other often, but she looked at Clare, looked at me, and said—I kid you not—”Is this the baby?!!!”

“No, lady…,” I thought.  But I said, “It is.  She’s almost seven.”

I guess history really does repeat itself.

On Saturday, the baby turns seven.  Seven.  She was just born.  She was only three when I started blogging. She just started Kindergarten, didn’t she?  And now I’m looking at this grown-up girl who picks her own clothes, has spelling and math homework, and won’t let me kiss her at the bus stop if there are other kids looking.

Birthdays are a big deal for me.  Given the opportunity, I’ll celebrate birthdays all week, all month, and all season if I can get away with it.  Tonight we’re making cupcakes for Clare to take to school tomorrow. Tomorrow night, we’re going out to dinner with a couple of Clare’s friends from school and their parents. On Saturday—the big day—Clare has ballet rehearsal, but we’ll also find something fun for just Clare, Clare’s Mom and me to do.  Sunday is a party for family.  We’ve got a busy weekend ahead.

I love birthdays.  I think I love Clare’s birthday more than my own.  But I can’t believe that the baby is seven.

Happy birthday, Pumpkin.  We love you.