When I met K, I was 23. I barely spoke any Polish, had never tried kwaśnica, and had no idea she’d be by my side 29 years later when I turn 52. Twenty-nine more years and I’ll be 81. The Girl will be 37; the Boy will be nearly 32.
When L was born, I was just a few weeks away from 34. I had no idea how quickly time would pass, that within a blink L would be a legal adult (that doesn’t sound right, but shockingly, it is), and I would be in my fifties. Eighteen more years, and I’ll be 70. The Girl will be 36, the Boy nearly 31.
When the Boy came along, I was 39 and honestly not giving much thought to turning 40. Now that’s twelve years behind me. In twelve more years, I’ll be 64. Will they still need me? Will they still feed me? L will be 30 at that point; the Boy, nearing 25.
If tonight was anything to go by, by the time I’m celebrating these birthdays, my bedtime will be eight — it’s not even ten, and I’m exhausted.