Half-Time

Yesterday, my son celebrated another half-birthday. It has been a point of reference for most of his life. We tend to take out the Sharpie and make another mark on the inside of the wardrobe door to illustrate the way his height continues to act as a function of his age, even as his parents begin to cling tenaciously to the feet and inches that they have. The official observance of this semi-annual rite of passage can be dated back to his time in preschool. While every child's birthday was occasion to have them sit in the Big Birthday Chair, and to have all the other kids and staff write tributes (my favorite being "Donald has a lot of good ideas in the block room"), half-birthdays were greeted with song: "Happy half-birthday, happy half-birthday, you're a little older now," to the tune of "La Cucaracha."
At twelve and a half years, it does occur to me that the next time we actively take note of my son's age, he will be a teenager. At the same time, I am also reminded of a Christmas card we received a few years back from a friend who wrote under her family's photo: "Carly - Seventeen Months, Shirley - Three Hundred and Thirty-Six Months, Bill - Three Hundred and Forty-Five Months." In elementary school there is a huge distinction to be drawn between a six-year-old and a five-and-a-half-year-old, and they will be the first ones to point it out to you. A time will come when the scale changes. We stop anticipating the next big thing: getting the training wheels off, middle school, driver's license. Instead, we start to dread the upcoming prostate exam. The rush to be older ends once you find yourself there.
But for now, we can marvel in that one and a half inch growth spurt, and the fact that he cringes only slightly when discussing the opposite sex. He's a little bit older now. But not too much.