Last night we went to our local Fourth of July block party, per usual, a party we’ve been attending for about six years now. Just so happened we’d been going through photos from these parties the night before and exclaiming how young our kids were when our neighbor started throwing them. Here's a photo of yesteryear's fun. That's Leah in front.

Leah with firework

So last night’s party felt particularly poignant as I realized the young kids lining up for their turn to light a firework were not kids I knew. The kids I knew, many of them now 13, 14, and 15, were roaming around and chatting, a few lighting fireworks but most not. The lure of fireworks has dulled for them, especially for the girls (until they start throwing their own Independence Day parties, I suppose--now that's a scary thought).

On Facebook this morning, I saw a few photos of families who had congregated one block over from us, families with toddlers, preschoolers, and soon-to-be kindergartners. The same phase I was in six years ago. In six years those kids will be on the cusp of adolescence.Leah at Skaha

For my daughter, six years is just about half her life. For my son, it's two-thirds of his. Forever.

For me, six years is nearly one-eighth of my life and getting fractionally smaller every year. In other words, a couple fleeting steps and then my kids are gone. Kinda freaky.