We had a couple of grandkids celebrate birthdays this week. One turned 16 and is excited to be able to drive the car. His sister turned 10 and believes she can now see the video her mom told her she was too young for a mere week ago when she was only 9.

Our oldest grandson is now the legal age of 21 and, come fall, will be headed off to Texas to do some practice teaching. His sister will soon be 20, or as David said when his oldest sister Angie turned 20, “She’s half way up the hill.”

It seems a bit depressing that only three of our seven grandchildren are shorter than me. They keep measuring their height next to me with the goal of passing me.

It’s a rather depressing thought to me. It seems like such a short time ago when we were measuring our first daughter’s age in weeks and then months. When she was a toddler we’d say she was “3 ½” and she’d quickly correct us and say, “I’m almost 4.”

Then the halves and almosts turned to teens and we stopped keeping track.

I stopped counting after 21 and when I reached 29 I stayed there for a while. When my kids got taller than me I admitted to being 30-something.

When I slipped over the hill I announced to the world and myself (I was the only one listening) that age is just a number. I keep my number unlisted.

Actually, I can’t remember growing older. Maybe that’s why some people ask when I am going to grow up.

To me, I’m just the same “me” as ever. I’ve acquired some knowledge, experience and memories along with a few wrinkles and gray hairs but basically what has always been me still is.

The person I was when I was 3, vividly aware of the pulsating miracle of life around me, responds to the world around me today. The feeling of wonder and joy and surprise is still intense today as it was then. The only changes in the person I know as me are on the surface.

As for the covering on the package, scientists say our body cells replace themselves fully every seven years. According to that, age just means a change in wardrobe once in a while.

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