It doesn't matter that whenever I think of our great visit home (don't tell Peter I said that) I can bring up any number of cool stories (remember Elli's coffee?). It seems that lately, all I can think of is how much the sting hurt when I got the nasty slap in the face that told me the family tree grows on, as do the branches on the trees of my nearest and dearest, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.
When I met my sixteen-month old nephew Jordan on Christmas Day, it was a special moment (even though he ran away because he didn’t know me). My brother reproduced. Begat. Carried on, threw his dna in the primordial soup. That alone scares years off of me, because I grew up with the man. But knowing there's some good Jennifer DNA in Jordan will make him a little more stable.
So there I was, watching Jeff cuddle his son while smiling in that first-time-besotted-daddy way. Jordan is sucking on his bottle, his little sixteen-month-old fingers holding his bottle, relaxed in the hammock of his daddy's arms. And then it hits me. I'm going to miss so much by living so far away. And time won't stop for me, dang it.
I was gone for only two years and Jordan came to join my brother's family. The adorable Miss Emily joined my sister’s family, and I have missed a full two years of her life. All of my friends’ children have grown, joined sports, and speak in clear sentences now. Gone are most of the sweet, joyful hugs from the boys. Moms aren’t allowed to kiss them either, so I don't feel too bad, but when I once was jumped upon and squealed at and laughed and played with, now it's more of a what's up, Auntie, kind of thing.
I don't know how you mothers deal with it.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were a few occasions when I would introduce myself to young adults who then laughed at me and said “don’t you recognize me, Auntie?” Life goes on, I’m getting old, and this really sucks.
Ginnie Marie is now Ginnie. She’s graduated university and now works as a reporter for her local paper. She comes in the door with a rushed presence, clicking off her Bluetooth headset with an “I’ll call you back.” She drops her briefcase and her designer handbag and says “Auntie Joyce! Uncle Peter! I rushed home to see you two before you left!”
And there I was, wondering where the girl that had just graduated from high school was. The one I used to send reassuring emails to as she moved in to the dorms at UC Santa Barbara. I didn’t know the woman in front of me, even though she hugged me with just as much love as I remember when she was tiny. Sigh. Yup, time stops for no one who moves to Canada.
When reviewing all the pictures with my Girl Cult when Peter and I came home to blessedly un-crowded Lanark County, I realized that most of my pictures were of the children I met and re-acquainted myself with. And I aged again. Gone are the pictures of wild parties and hey- look at that one, she's taking her bra off! Most of my pictures are of the kids that will be strangers to me once again when I head back to California.
And I’ll be right back in the shock phase of wondering who these people are that are calling me Auntie.
If you want to see how old you’re getting, look at the pictures of your kids and their friends, then sit down and have a good, long cry. Don’t cry too hard though, we don’t want to add to those laugh lines.
And please, let me know if you’ve figured out how to watch the kids grow up without aging yourself. That’s a trick I’d really like to master.
