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Griffey, baby

Eleven years ago today, I went in to work my shift at The Cheesecake Factory, had a dull, nagging pain in my lower back, and ended up going into labor with Griffin five weeks early.  Eleven years ago tomorrow at 2:36 in the morning, he'll have been born.  

Time is going by so fast.  
Griffin is going by so fast.

I'm not sure why eleven feels so monumental.  It's not like he just moved into double digits and became a preteen--that was last year. It's not like he's actually a teenager, either.  I suppose if I had to articulate it, it would be that twelve is the year my best friends from that time and I completely lost our innocence--C had sex, M, H, and I all came pretty close--we sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night, we watched porn, we smoked, we drank, we tried stealing my dad's motorcycle and car--we did everything twelve-year-old kids most definitely should not do.  I suppose my thinking is that, if he follows my calendar, Griffin only has one year of real childhood left, and the thought that Griffin, who still wants to snuggle with me and his father in our bed, who kisses the dogs good morning and goodnight, who still believes in Santa Claus and just left his lost tooth in a special pillow for the tooth fairy is on the brink of young adulthood is heartbreaking.  
I'm not a total fool. I know that my friends and I delving into the world of sex, drugs, and rock n roll when we were prepubescent doesn't necessarily dictate that Griffin will, too, but because I'm not a total fool, I know what can happen. I know what's lying ahead.  Maybe those things won't happen when he's twelve or thirteen or even fourteen, but they'll happen, they're waiting, and one day my little Griffey will find them, and he  won't be my little Griffey anymore.

And that makes me oh so sad.

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