Suddenly I’m pulled up short. I’m sitting in a hotel in Bloomington, Indiana, and I realize what’s about to happen. It’s 2008 and my two sons are in striking range of celebrating their birthdays. Keith, the younger, turns thirty-six this month; while Kevin, the older, turns forty on September 11. (Who could have imagined forty years ago the ignominy of that day?)
Where did the time go?
I remember them as infants, as toddlers, preschoolers, students. They were four years apart, so it often felt as if I were raising two only children. Perhaps this was more obvious because they are diametrically opposed in so many ways. One is an academic, the other into pop culture. One is frugal with earth’s blessings; the other is nonchalant. One struggles with money; the other has a successful business.
At the same time, they have things in common. Both are dependable; each calls home regularly. Both have significant others; each works hard to be a worthy mate. Both know his sibling is out there; each will appreciate the other more when they have to choose my nursing home.
I think forty is a milestone, which is why I’m probably more cognizant of their birthdays this year. All I know is that I’ll call on the appropriate day, listen to their hopes and dream, wish them “Happy Birthday” and hang up thinking how lucky I am.
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