Last night, after returning Nora from her music lesson, Steph and I went to Mt. Carmel Brewing to celebrate her birthday. She had this lovely flight, one sample for each decade, and I sipped about half a beer since I'm still pretty congested. But I did have a lovely mushroom flatbread.
I have to admit that fifty years ago I couldn't have anticipated such an outcome. Fifty years ago there were phone calls to the grandparents, celebrating the first granddaughter after five grandsons for one set, the first grandchild for the other. A package of Oreos from my husband because I'd so missed them during my pregnancy, back in the day when the doctor would despair over any weight gain more than a pound or two. A visit from my brother- and sister-in-law that included a pair of pajamas in size 18 months because their youngest insisted on the pajamas with clowns.
I couldn't have imagined being able to have such a celebration because the budget was so tight that we forewent the hospital baby photo. And yes, I have regretted that. Back then, a photo was precious, delayed, and you never quite knew how it would turn out.
Fifty years ago I couldn't have imagined being 73. Living in Cincinnati, of all places. Having been a widow for many years. Having a wonderful group of grandchildren and grand dogs. Having a tiny phone that I could carry around and that could take instant pictures and connect me with the news.
Having a sewing machine with auto-tension. That's huge too. And ok, having more than one.