Do you remember in school, being given a few words to start your story? You know, like, It started like any other ordinary day. Well, that’s how my title feels. It all happened yesterday.
Yesterday we were working out how long it was until Sam turns 7. Then came the natural progression of Tyson saying, well, then we’re waiting for me to turn 10 after that. 2 things hit me fair and square in my gut. Ok, maybe Sam was going to turn 7, but that only gives me 12 months to perfect the time-freeze machine, because there is no way my baby is turning 8…. and it was while I was thinking about that, that what Tyson said had sunk in. HE-WILL-BE-TEN-NEXT-YEAR. Double digits. The big 1-0.
I’m not ready for THAT. He’s heading fair and square into pre-teenagerhood. And suddenly I look at him and realise that he’s nearly up to my shoulder. *skip* swears he’ll be taller than me well before he turns 13.
When did all this happen anyway? When did I fall asleep, like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, only to awake and discover that my castle had grown up around me? I don’t remember letting this happen. I’m certainly not ready for it. I can actually remember (sort-of) that feeling of turning 10, and it’s a pretty major feeling.
So often I get comments that people don’t believe that I have kids that age, and I must have started young. No, and no. I don’t have kids that age… my kids are still just little, aren’t they? And no, 21 and 23 isn’t young. But hang on a minute. That means that Tyson could have his own kids in 8 years. Suddenly 21 is so very young. But if 10 is OLD and 21 is YOUNG, how do we work this out? All I can think of is that we need some extra years in there…. make 10 and a half last for a whole year.
Congratulations on reading this far, and here’s your reward 🙂
Brush stroke in title by Meredith Fenwick (SBB). Fonts used are Pea Jenny Script, Times and Times again, snowshoe and Hotel Coral Essex. Created in Cs2.
Leave me some love HERE if you have a minute 🙂
Now off to work on my little time-stand-still contraption. Oh yeah, it’s called a scrapbook.