When you have your first grandchild, that's when it happens.
You begin to see how fast time goes.
Today, Skylar Angela became a old-year-old.
I thought she was born just yesterday.
On January 8 last year, I was there when her mom woke us up with water gushing. I lent her my pajamas, which, for obvious reasons, are now her pajamas.
We lent the nice paramedics a shoe lace. We'll never get that shoelace back again.
We were there at the hospital, too, when mommy had to explain how she hadn't managed to get a health card throughout her nine month pregnancy and myriad doctors' visits and when the nice hospital folks tried to get these broke and silly children to pay the hospital bill.
I was there through the first few months, helping the kids adjust to parenthood. And then she was gone -- off to her other grandma's.
Just as well. Gordie the pug hated her. Wanted to choke the life out of her.
But now Skylar is back living with her parents in my basement once again.
Gordie likes her better now. Her face and hands are always full of sweet and saucy surprises that no dog, even Gordie, could resist.
Hey Skylar! I'm talking to you!
I wish you only the best for the next year. I wish your father continued and sustained employment. I wish your mother patience with your father.
I wish our other tenants good ear plugs.
And I wish great health and an absence of colds, the flu, puking, diarrhea, ear infections, the croup --which were all on display in the basement and at the hospital last week.
Thankfully, your dad remembered to bring your health card!
One thing I don't have to wish for you.
You already have all you can handle.
Happy birthday, my sweet little peanut.