Today is my kid's birthday, she turns twenty-two. That's very disturbing somehow. I really had no problem with all of the played up birthdays so far, like the thirteenth, the eighteenth, even the twenty-first. Don't know why, but somehow this meaningless one aggravates the crap out of me. I think maybe it's because she's now entered into that phase of none to look forward to other than those to dread, validating getting older and when one starts knowing their own mortality. Thirty is the next biggie, and then of course from there on out it goes by decade. Shit, she can't be so old already. Or maybe it's not so much about her as what this bodes for me. Criminy! If she only had not have been born so damn premature as she was I would at least have had another couple of months to maybe adjust to the idea of this. Nah, it would have still caught me off guard whenever, I know. But still, it doesn't really seem all that long ago visiting her incubator at the NI...