Today we became parents of a teenager.
I sit and look at that word in wonder. “She’s thirteen,” I said to myself multiple times today. “Thirteen!”
She’s no longer interested in getting toys of any kind for her birthday. She’s no longer interested in watching cartoons. She’s no longer interested in so many things that once meant the world to her.
Now she watches Grey’s Anatomy and advises K on make-up brands. She picks apart K’s and my words, looking for semantic loopholes — “But you said…” — and no longer turns up her nose at movie recommendations coming from me.
She’s as tall as K now, as stubborn as anyone we know, as sweet as a thirteen-year-old can be (and that age can be incredibly sweet — I wouldn’t have worked with thirteen-year-olds for as long as I have if it weren’t for that). She’ll stay up as late as we allow (probably later), sleep as long as we let her, and fuss at the silliest things — just like a teenager, I guess.
She’s more beautiful than we could have expected, more aggravating than we would have wished, funnier than we deserve, and often sweeter than honey.
Except when she’s not
Which means she’s officially a teenager.