I am not old. Almost 28, and yet I’ve helped in raising a lot of my younger cousins. This weekend I discovered, as most parents usually find out, that my kiddos are getting older and becoming adults. And I hate it.
Not that I liked them all that much as a kid growing up. Lots of diapers to change, tears to dry, pouts to attempt and fail to ignore. I loved spoiling my cousins. They were mine, in a ragtag Peter Pan/lost boys type of way. I love them all fiercely and they know better than to do anything but indulge me, as I indulge them.
So Ariani rolls her eyes and smiles, telling me to calm down when she dances with boys and I threaten to cut off their hands. Bryana giggles whenever I groan about how short her skirts are and points out how big her heels are as if to show off. Diance boasts about the age he starts smoking and how soon he’ll be able to drink legally while my heart cringes and wants to murder whoever introduced him to such scandalous adult things. And finally, Alaya, who’s Sweet Sixteen was this weekend and did she reign gorgeous and supreme both upon entering and later on the dance floor.
These aren’t all my kids, I really do have a tribe, but they gave me a nice reality check at the party. Time happens. And it certainly flies when you’re having fun. My biggest blessing is being such an influence in their early life and continuing that role as mentor and generally fun older person they don’t have to keep secrets from. Because I needed that growing up, and I definitely didn’t get it. So I’m glad I made it possible in some small way, for them to have someone to turn to however briefly if they needed me. Gotta love family.