You are growing up.  Unless you live in Neverland with the Lost Boys, you know what it’s like to go from being a foot under the minimum height for the roller coaster rides, to being taller than your own hunky father.

And even though you might not be a Hollywood celebrity, your parents are your paparazzi. They watch you grow, as you spit up baby food and get the first A+ on your math test.  They recollect how they took you to the Fisherman’s Wharf for lunch every weekend, eating while watching the sailboats go by.  They mentally record you singing out of tune in the shower and slamming the door while calling your friends, so that one day, when their skin feels like dried paper and when their eyes have lost the light, they can remember how you never managed to blow out your birthday candles on the first try, how it took thirteen Band-Aids, five scabs, and two Kleenex boxes for you to learn how to ride a bike, and they can remember being there and watching it all.

Time passes fast, warp speed, for one moment there is panic in the hospital when you refuse to come out, the next is high school graduation and your mother wiping tears from her face as you proudly display your cap and tassel.  Soon, you are in their position, holding a crying infant in your arms, and whispering,” I love you, I love you.”
You watch your baby grow up, a sapling to sequoia, while you see the first gray streak at your temple.  You watch as your son grows stronger and stronger, watch as your little boy brings home his first black eye.  You go to see the doctor about your health on the same day as your highschooler gets on the varsity football team.  You observe how ring after ring appears, each circle wider than the one before, watch as the bark of your son grows tougher and tougher, and you notice how you seem to be shrinking next to him.

You replay the image of him waving at you before he boards his 4 a.m. plane to Boston, and when you get home, sitting alone with a half-empty coffee mug in your hand, you realize that it has never been so silent before.

You realize that all these years you’ve been thinking more about your family and less about yourself, but you realize that your family is all that matters.  You realize that although you might get annoyed when your son bites back at you, or your daughter angers when the math teacher calls you in for a conference over a D-exam, you still love them and care about them more than you do about yourself.

And you know that when your skin feels like dried paper, when there are bags under your eyes and wrinkles around your skin, you will remember how your sixteen-year-old daughter made a dent in your Mercedes-Benz right after “passing” the driver’s test. You won’t forget the time your son got his big head stuck in the tire swing; how he “pantsed” an older kid for calling him a wimp. You will remember how on her wedding day, you gave your blessing to her, with tears streaming down your cheeks and splotches onto your tie.

But you will also remember the day you got the news that your mother had a stroke, where you felt like you just got slapped in the face.  You will remember the day you solemnly went to her funeral, dressed in midnight black, and looked at the open casket before it was lowered into the ground.  You will remember how hard it felt to you, how you suddenly realized how much you care about her, and how it seemed all too it fast that she was gone.  And you will imagine what would happen when you take your last breath, when you are lowered into the coffin, and how your children will feel, standing there, watching as they see you for the last time.  Then, you will remember how much your parents loved you, how much your children loved you, and how much you loved all of them, and then you will remember what it feels like to be all part of that family.