Today my twins are eighteen. Maybe they should count as thirty six, since there are two of them. Then again they only had one placenta so perhaps I should halve it to nine.
In any case I feel like celebrating. It is a miracle to call them mine, and yet today marks the somewhat arbitrary transition to when I no longer have such a claim. They are stepping, no dancing, into womanhood and their futures are a bright window. They will go places I have never been, explore vistas I might never see.
Since John and I were on the gray side of forty when they were born, we cannot keep up with them. But that is not cause for concern. Being a launching pad for young women who will become a force for good in a speckled world suits me fine.
What happens when you pour your love into your children, and they gradually outgrow their need for your support? It hurts a little, and yet the ache is overshadowed by the glorious awareness that they have their own dreams. Arrows are meant to fly.
"Children are a heritage of the Lord. The fruit of the womb is his reward. Happy is the person who has his quiver full of them." Psalm 127
