Growing old ungratefully

I've heard it said that growing old is better than the alternative - and there is no argument from me on that point. But few things are guaranteed to make one feel old than seeing one's children pass another birthday. And so it was that hot on the heels of two of our good friends becoming parents to tiny twins last week, Daniel turned two and can no longer be classed as a baby. He is a bona fide toddler and knows it.

We had an open house to mark the occasion, with (at peak) 23 children and 13 adults present. Of those 23 children, 20 were aged six or under. Chaos isn't the word. Oh for weather that would have allowed us to use the garden - or, I suppose, a lawn that doesn't take days to drain after a millimetre of drizzle. We were confined to indoors. I mopped up eight spillages but all the food was eaten. My friend Kellie from work had made a sumptuous cake following the leitmotif Thomas the Tank Engine; he was on the tablecloth, napkins, wrapping paper, balloons, banners and cards. Daniel was so excited to blow out his candle and open his presents, it reminded me how quickly we lose that childlike enthusiasm and of course that made me feel older too.

Don't misunderstand me - it's great to see my children growing up, especially given the alternative. They're developing their own personality and learning about character, and they also idolise their dad. (Well Adam does; Daniel takes some convincing on Friday evening when he's barely seen me all week.) But I also know it will be over all too soon. One day I will be first to wake on a Saturday morning because the boys can't shift the duvet from their teenaged carcasses. Conversations will be become monosyllabic on their side instead of mine and I will take on the role previously held by my dad, berating them for staying out too late.

And then eventually we will probably become parents ourselves. Apparently that makes you feel young again. That's alright then.