My twins just turned thirteen.
When they were infants I swaddled them together on the top of the pack and play.
When they were one, I cheered them on as they took their first steps.
When they were two, I laughed when they took dumps in their no-longer-a-diaper underwear.
When they were three, I wondered how people so young could so confidently know it all.
When they were four, I marveled at their growing curiosity.
When they were five, I smiled as they played their first notes on the piano and danced their first steps in ballet.
When they were six, I listened as they read their first chapter books.
When they were seven, I watched them learn how to swim.
When they were eight, I wondered how they could eat with all those teeth missing.
When they were nine, I admired their intellectual stamina.
When they were ten, I realized they were growing up too fast.
When they were eleven, I championed their emerging sense of justice.
When they were twelve, I braced myself for the attitude and drama that was becoming the norm.
Now they're thirteen. They have grown into two beautifully flawed, dynamic, emotional, curious, empathetic, self-actualized, perfectly imperfect humans.
I couldn't ask for anything more. So I won't.
I'll continue to be grateful and loving and try to stay in the present moment.