I am struggling to believe that I have a twelve year old.
A turns twelve today, and I told her very clearly that I am not ready for that. I was fine with an eleven year old. Eleven felt manageable. So my suggestion was that she could just stay eleven for another year and we would all be good.
She immediately said she would rather not repeat year six, so that was a hard no. We laughed. I smiled.
I have noticed this pattern with myself. When T gets a year older, I feel a little sad about it, but I can rationalise it. I tell myself that A is still younger. There is still a buffer. Someone is still firmly in the little kid category, so everything is fine.
But when A gets older, there is no one left to cushion it.
That is it.
They are both getting older, and there is no younger sibling behind them to make it feel less final. That realization hits differently.
I always knew this was how it worked. When they were two or three, I would catch myself thinking, at least they are not ten yet. Or twelve. Those numbers felt far away. Abstract. Something I could worry about later.
Now they are past that line. They are still little in so many ways, but they are also not. And that is the part that keeps sneaking up on me.
It is strange, because I genuinely love the people they are becoming. I like talking to them. I like seeing who they are turning into. I am proud of them. All of that can be true at the same time as this quiet sense of something slipping by.
So yes, today A turns twelve.
I am not ready for that.
But here we are.