I don’t remember turning 12. I feel like I should remember it – like 12 is a big important number to turn in the grand scheme of important birthdays. Maybe I was just fixated on being 13, but honestly, I don’t remember that either.
I remember turning 7; I remember the party in our back yard where my sister hung donuts from the Hills Hoist and we had to try to eat them with our hands behind our backs.
I remember turning 8. There was that party game with a flour castle and a piece of chocolate and you had to eat the chocolate without getting a dirty face. My sister organised that too. I’m still unsure of the purpose of that game, unless it’s simply to eat chocolate. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. 🙂
I remember one year there was supposed to be a party at Skateworld (the coolest place in town), but we stuffed up the opening hours and everyone arrived when it had closed. We did fish and chips on the beach instead. The year after we actually got to go to Skateworld, and mum even organised one of the birthday packages, which was so cool. But I’m me, and I fell over and fractured my foot.
That might have been around the time I turned 12, but I’m really not sure.
I remember turning 14, because my friends all chipped in to buy me the coolest Tasmanian Devil bag in the world.
When I turned 15 (I think), we had a ‘how to host a teen-murder party’ and that was lots of fun.
At 16 a friend decided a lacy g-string would be a good gag gift and I opened it in front of all my friends.
18 I would rather not recall.
I don’t remember 12.
There are snippets of memories in there; a pasta party. The year my mum bought me a cream cake and I cried because I don’t eat cream and couldn’t believe she ‘didn’t know me at all!’ That sounds sufficiently angst filled enough to be 12 or 13, although I can’t be sure.
I feel like I should remember turning 12.
My eldest turns 12 today, and it seems big. Somewhat momentous. Like 1 was, and then 3, 5, and 10. Now it’s 12. I have no idea why 12 feels important; perhaps because there’s only ‘a year of childhood left.’ Maybe because ‘tweens’ are between 8-12 , and now that she’s at the end of that age bracket things feel really real. Maybe it’s just because if she was a jewish boy she would now be a man.
No scratch that. It’s not the last one 😉
Yesterday she said to me, ‘I can’t believe I’m nearly 12!’
And I said, ‘I don’t think I’m old enough to have a 12 year old.’
And she agreed. ‘My friends don’t think you are either. They can’t believe you’re only 32, cause their mums are like, 40.’ (Said as if 40 is the oldest age you can be.) I’m taking that as a compliment – no offence to 40 year olds, but you take what you can. 😉
As a kid, I’m assuming 12 wasn’t big to me. Seeing as there was no memory of doughnuts, or cream cakes or fractured feet.
As a parent though, 12 feels huge. Scary huge in some ways; from what I’ve heard, Taylah may have a complete personality change sometime in the not-too-distant future. But it’s also exciting huge. Things are real now; I can talk real now.
With little kids it’s all about singing the ABC’s and ‘let’s use ‘kind’ hands,’ and everything aims to teach in a really simple version, because that’s what’s needed. But now things are not so dummed down. We can talk about the real things of life; being who you are, and why some boys are worth avoiding, and how mean girls are never cool. She asks deep questions, and I can give actual answers. She challenges me in good ways and some not so good- but in a way it’s all positive, as I get to see who she is now. What she believes, and what’s important to her.
She’s growing up, and it’s amazing and awesome, and all other kinds of A words that mean ‘tops’.
And she’s amazing and awesome and I couldn’t be prouder of her if I tried.
I don’t remember 12. But I think I’m going to like it.