Dawn Is Me

Enough of that whiney stuff.

I can see that the school year will proceed according to schedule, with no real surprises and no startling new behaviors on the part of my children.

Three days into the school and Ricky wins this year’s award for most airheaded child of the Baker clan, hands down. Clearly, he hasn’t changed much over the years.

This child of mine, who once left his shoes in a tree (he’s never going to live that down), called me from school on Thursday morning (before homeroom had started) to tell me that he’d left home, headed for school, without his school bag.

As I have said repeatedly, my children are lucky that their mother has a sense of humor. Dutiful me climbed into the car and ferried the backpack to the middle school.

Kimmie seems to have undergone a major transition of some sort. Her birthday was almost ten days ago and it seems that she didn’t just turn 15. Seems she really turned fifteen! if you see what I mean (which you probably don’t).

I smell a breakthrough of some sort coming. Stay tuned.

Headline-grabbing Gina, not content with simply heading off to embark on her junior year at Ithaca (which is fairly exciting all by itself), is currently preoccupied with trying to not catch the H1N1 virus, aka swine flu.

See? I told you she’s smart.

Evidently, it’s all over the place on Cornell’s campus (you know those Ivies, they don’t do anything halfway) but there are only around 20 cases across town at Ithaca. We’ll hope it stays that way.

Who needs television? If I really want excitement, all I have to do is watch my kids.

So, tell me if this ever happens to you.

Every now and then, I forget how old I am.

That’s not quite as insane as it may sound. Well, at least, I hope not … but, then, that’s why I’m asking you about it. Always operating under the assumption that you are possibly more sane than I am.

Anyway, for about two weeks after my birthday, I find myself telling myself at random moments, “I am N years old,” where N is equal to my current age at the moment — as contrasted to my former age, which was my current age a week or so before the aforementioned episode of talking to myself.

Maybe I am insane.

Yes, it’s sad but true. Right after I have a birthday, I am constantly in danger of forgetting that I’ve had a birthday and the age I’m used to being, after a year of being that age, is no longer the age I am.

Interestingly, this is not a problem I had when I was, say, thirteen.

I don’t think that’s a function of creeping senility, either.

When you’re twelve and you turn thirteen, you have spent a lot of time up until your birthday reminding yourself that you are about to turn thirteen. That’s because you’re a kid and you’re excited about the notion of getting older — especially one of the biggies, like thirteen, when you ‘officially’ enter the magical land of teendom.

In fact, when you’re that age, you have to exert a certain amount of control over yourself to keep yourself from telling people that you’re 13 for at least the last month before your birthday.

By the time you get to be my age, such excitement no longer applies.

It’s sad and bewildering but, for some reason, I am not exactly excited anymore about getting older. Oh well … that’s another change that you kiddies have to look forward to.