I was born in the Year of the Ox. Anyone with a bare-bones knowledge of the lunar calendar knows that your "sign" comes around every 12 years. I am not going to be 12 this lunar year. Nor 24. Nor 36. No, I am going to be 48.
We visited with our very good friends -- our Chinese family, as it were -- yesterday. The lazy daughter -- Che-Che ("older sister" in phonetic Chinese) -- was sleeping, but she had an excuse this time. She is with child. And said child shall be born in the Year of the Ox. My year.
We talked with her and her husband and her parents, Ee-Ee and Sou-Sou ("auntie" and "uncle" in that same piss-poor phonetic Chinese of mine), about many aspects of pregnancy and childbirth and the like.
Eldest was driven to distraction with all the talk, quite frankly. I'm not sure if that has more to do with his knowing how babies are created -- ewwwww! -- or the very thought of a being coming into, well, being.
Daughter was enthralled with the whole concept. I tell her too often that I believe she is the favorite of Ee-Ee (or my Daughter's "real mother" as I often call her) and the others. Daughter is sweet and loving and polite and helpful and grateful and all those wonderful, wholesome qualities. The idea of Che-Che having a baby had her doing her tween screech of "OMG!! OMG!!"
Youngest, nearly 7, is the poster child for remaining childless. Che-Che and her husband exchanged solemn vows to stop having children after just two, believing that the third one would be, well, such a third.
What does this all have to do with aging? In a blink of an eye, my first-born baby is 12. In another blink of an eye, when it is again the Year of the Ox, I will be approaching 60 and the child of Che-Che will be nearly 12. Will I make it until this child-to-be is almost 24? Perhaps. I surely won't make it until she is almost 48.
I accept my aging body and mind and soul. I accept it, but it saddens me at times to know that I will not be on this earth with those I love and will love for long enough. And, of course, there would never be a time I'd likely call "long enough."
Sunday Scribblers are aging this week. Read all about it.