Charlotte’s Sweet 16 happened as suddenly as spring

Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Hard to believe. Isn’t that what we say about time? Hard to believe it’s almost May. Where did April go? Hard to believe the boy who just left for college has already finished his freshman year. Hard to believe my daughter and her husband are about to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Didn’t my husband and I just celebrate ours?

Hard to believe that Charlotte is 16. Charlotte is my third biological grandchild and the blush should have been off the rose by the time she was born, right? Number one grandchild was a girl. The first. And nothing beats the first. But then the second came along and it was like the first all over again, except this time the baby was a boy. And then came the third and I thought it cannot happen again. Impossible. But it did and it does, because children, whether they’re ours or our grandchildren or stepkids or nieces or nephews, or the children who live next door, work their magic simply by being.

And now this being who was born just a blink ago, is, hard to believe, 16, and I know it’s not as if she went to bed one night a toddler and woke up a teen. I have witnessed her growing. I have seen her change. I should not be surprised.

But I am because 16 feels sudden, the way spring feels sudden though it isn’t, though it is always a long time coming.

For months, Charlotte has been counting the days to her birthday, 16 a magic number having nothing to do with peaches and cream and lips like strawberry wine, as the old song would have us believe. Sixteen, for Charlotte, has always been about just one thing: getting her driver’s permit.

When she was little and wanting to do what her older siblings were doing — mastering the monkey bars, going to preschool, learning to read and write and play baseball, her mother called Charlotte “Me Too.”

“ME TOO!” Charlotte would cry, as Amy and Matt and Adam got dropped off at school while she sat strapped in her car seat. “ME TOO!” she’d wail when they played Little League and she couldn’t. “ME TOO!” she’d shout every time she was left behind.

She didn’t shout when they all started to drive. She’d outgrown the shouting stage by then. Instead Me Too began to count, first the years, then the days until she could drive.

I began to count a few weeks ago, but for a different reason. I sat at the computer one day and scrolled backwards, looking at recent pictures first, going back in time, to find the seasons, the days, the moments when Charlotte grew up. I have so many pictures of her, pictures I took, pictures family and friends took, pictures I copied from Facebook. I believed I would see a sudden change somewhere.

The pictures captured hundreds of moments. Christmases. Birthdays. Halloween. Backyard gatherings. The week on the Cape when Charlotte was 2. Santa’s Village when she was 3. Davis Farm when she was 4. Me Too hamming it up. Mugging. Making faces. Making us laugh.

They captured her history. But not her transformations.

Charlotte doesn’t make faces any more. She doesn’t scrunch up her nose or cross her eyes or stick out her tongue. She doesn’t twirl around in circles until she spins herself dizzy. She doesn’t sing silly songs that make us all laugh. She doesn’t dance and improvise in front of a camera.

When did she stop doing these things?

She had red hair when she was born. Not bright red and not a lot of it. But it was red, not blonde.

Her hair turned blonde and we were there watching, taking pictures. But we didn’t see this happening. The camera didn’t see either or there would be a before and after picture. But there is none.

“Look how big you are,” we gushed so many times, marking her height on a wall. We celebrated her growth. We bought her new long pants. Then more new long pants. But when did she grow? She was 21 inches when she was born. She is 5 feet 8 inches now. How could this happen and we not see?

Charlotte was 7 when she lost her front baby teeth. We saw the new ones grow in. We watched the progression. The camera captured this.

Last week the forsythia were yellow. Now they are green. I saw the change. I’ve watched daffodils sprout and bloom and wither. I’m seeing pale, lacy leaves spring from, what two weeks ago, looked like dead trees.

The lilacs in my backyard bloomed on Charlotte’s birthday. I like to think it’s a metaphor but I know it’s just spring being spring.

Charlotte’s being 16 and getting her driver’s permit? Hard to believe. It feels sudden, but it isn’t. It’s the right time. It is her time. Me Too has caught up.