Sharpe: A teenage era ends (and how I learned to post on Instagram) | The Journal Record

Listen to this article Jennifer Sharpe My son is no longer a teenager. On March 5, my firstborn turned 20 years old. It seems like it was only yesterday when he made his entrance into this world, 14 days past his due date, the triumphant end to more than 24 hours of forced labor that nearly killed us both. At 10 pounds, 8 ounces, he was a monster baby, immediately too big for newborn-sized diapers and clothing. He was a giant among the other newborns in the nursery. He was born big and just always stayed big. I remember when he outgrew me, somewhere around age 14. Now he’s 6 foot, 5 inches, and likely not getting any taller (but you never know). As a parent, you get excited for your kids’ milestone birthdays. When his 20th approached, I didn’t think much of it — but then I realized what it meant — that he’s not a teen anymore. Like so many life moments, particularly those that come with parenting, the weight of it hit my gut and caused me to press pause. When did he get so old? When did I get so old? “You have to do a
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