If we lived in Mexico, we’d be hosting a Quinceañera. If we were high society, a debutante’s ball. Similarly, we Oregonians commemorate the 15th year of life by sending our offspring for their driving learner’s permits. 

Ah, the elegance of it all.

I don’t usually become verklempt with childhood milestones. I figure each year passing propels me toward a life of cruises and European tours. (I come into great wealth In my retirement fantasies.) But yesterday, in the middle of our suburban shopping mall, my eyes turned teary. This is the last year of true dependence for Emma. Next year, she’ll have her license (God willing) and she’ll be able to get where she needs to go without me. 

For our child’s 15th birthday, we celebrated as the family. 

  • we ate well
  • we shopped well
  • we conversed well
  • we re-decorated her room well to reflect the mid-teen she is now. (Although, we won’t get away from Disney decor any time soon. This is more subtle. Maybe. A little?)

As someone who forgets to remember the little things, I think this year will be different for me…this last year when she’s all ours.

Forgive me if my eyes give way to tears for no presumed reason. Although I shall attempt to keep such sentiment far, far away from my teen and her friends. The eye rolling I can endure has its limits.

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