In December, Sonya will have her first baby.
For some reason those facts feel linked.
Two weeks ago we sat in Sonya's old bedroom at her parents' house and caught up before guests arrived for her baby shower. Sonya was curling her hair and I was sitting on the red carpet; we talked about our significant others, our parents, and all the strange and hilarious ways the body changes (beyond the obvious) during pregnancy. The room is a shrine to a moment in time-- photographs and yearbooks from late high school and scattered college memorabilia. We've sat in that space hundreds of times, and it was nice to be back there, physically and mentally.
My own parents have moved out of my childhood home; my own shrine to that transformative time now lives in boxes in their basement. I am my adult self at my parents' new house, and that's not a bad thing. But I'll always be a teenager in Sonya's bedroom. I so cherish the elements of our teenage friendship that remain: the laughs, the jokes, and the memories. Few people have the handle on my timeline that Sonya does, and that history is special. As I get older, having other people who are responsible for keeping track of my story has become important. I hold close the histories of my friends as well, and in some ways our shared history informs our shared future.
Today, I've been thinking about how comforting shared history can be in some cases and how hard it can be to overcome in others.
I'm really looking forward to meeting Sonya's little boy, and telling him silly stories about his magnetic mother when she was 14.