My oldest daughter turned ten yesterday.
I know you’re not supposed to share the age of your kids or your home address in a blog post or a picture of that keg stand you did in college before Facebook was a thing, but having a kid reach double-digits makes me feel old.
It doesn’t seem like that long ago I was walking her back-and-forth down the hallway at our old house to soothe her, barely a month after she was born. I had to memorize the creaks in the wood floor so I wouldn’t step on one as she fell back asleep.
Now she retreats to her bedroom after school and FaceTimes her friends to see if they want to come over and stare at devices.
Not that I’m complaining about the way kids view technology. (Who do you think I am, Mitch Albom?) I consider myself lucky to have a daughter who still gives me the time of day and laughs at me in the morning when I do my best Miranda Sings impression to wake her up.
There’s no avoiding it, so you might as well embrace it. In fact, I applaud her school district for introducing Chromebooks for the kids to use on a regular basis. Start ’em young, I say.
Wait, did I say she’s young? That’s false. She’s older than I would like her to be, which means I’m older than I would like to be.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My wife and I can run up to the coffee shop to grab some java and we don’t have to load both kids in the car.
My daughter is also perfectly able to FaceTime her friends and rendezvous at the park to hang out. I don’t need to shuttle them anywhere, as long as it’s within bike-riding distance.
Those are the perks of having an older kid.
While I will always miss looking at her tiny face while wrapped her up in a onesie, having an older kid is pretty fun, too.
It’s just a different kind of fun.
Now, talk to me again in five years when the boys start to show up.