Kim Spencer

We Are Family; I Got My Sister With Me

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Happy Birthday, Mickey!

For four years and two days, I was an only child.  On July 3, 1970, my life was changed in ways a child that age could never comprehend.  Not only was I given a little sister, but also future cousins for my children, nieces and a nephew I adore, and another amazing man in my grown-up life in the form of a brother-in-law.  At that time, all I knew was I would have to now share the attention.  I guess I couldn’t have even had that awareness at age four, but family pictures and documents tell the story: I was clearly the star on our small family stage until that day.  My baby book is meticulously filled in; every line (every. single. line.) documenting the latest, greatest thing Kim said or did – “she corrected Grandpa yesterday, she calls milk muk, she’s walking!!” My mom made an effort with my sister’s baby book – of course the vitals: height, weight, length… a couple really big moments: first step, first word…… but then there it is on the entry for her second birthday, a picture of me blowing out the candles on my sixth birthday cake.  My sister, Michelle, and I noticed these first/second discrepancies for years.  Of course as a teenager, I found these types of things hilarious, but now I understand why my sister sometimes said, Really?  In Mom’s defense, we were living in Dubuque, Iowa and she was busy plotting our family’s escape back to sunny Florida where she grew up.  No offense to the Hawkeyes, it is what it is as people like to profoundly observe nowadays.


The four year age difference between us in the early pre-teenage years (not “tween” years– that made up life period created in the last two decades), solidified our identities as first born/last born.  Not having a middle sibling actually strengthened these roles without someone there to kind of buffer the dynamic.  It wasn’t until our late teenage years that the age difference started to close.  We became teenage girls trying to maneuver growing up in Daytona Beach in the 1980s.  We were very different people, but it became understood that either of us could witness the other committing the most heinous crime (hypothetical), and neither would rat the other out even in the most extreme interrogations.  We had each other’s backs, and we both completely comprehended on another level that having a person in your life with fierce loyalty is a good thing no matter how far apart in age.
What neither of us realized was how the age difference would completely disappear with the years.  My sister has been a confidante watching life’s biggest events through the same lens.  We’ve navigated family crises together and have helped each other process bewildering cultural moments like no one else could.  She exemplifies that quality of being true to yourself that we are all so desperately trying to instill in our children.  She is today at 48 the same person she was when she was 8 – sensitive, oh so intelligent, steadfast, curious, pensive, and mine. 🙂

 

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52 Years Young

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When I was 30 years old with my first baby girl hanging on my hip, my mom was 52, and we were both adjusting to our new titles of Mommy and Gram. My grandma became GGMom, and a new generation was underway.  I remember the first time my daughter’s baby babble came together to clearly form the word Mama – it was so exciting to be called by this new name! Three younger siblings quickly followed that first baby and fast forward to 2018, I now feel like I’m called Mom more than Kim. I’ve actually had entire conversations with people over the years who didn’t know my first name at all; I was just (Kelly/Sam/Cassidy/Troy)’s Mom.  My grandma passed away in 2002, and that baby Kelly on my hip is now 22 – the age my mom was when she had me.  So I guess I am at somewhat of a full circle moment, as I am approaching 52 myself at the end of this week.  Turns out as you are hustling full speed through life after college getting jobs, raising babies, starting businesses, etc., all those older folk who were always telling you to appreciate it because it goes too fast actually knew what they were talking about.

Turning 52 itself is really no big deal. Once you cross the 50 milestone, it’s pretty much business as usual.  Except for the fact that party conversations now include discussions of new knees, colonoscopy appts, good podiatrists and thyroid issues, I feel like the exact same person I was at 22.  It’s more the fact that I am slowly creeping to the next stage of being in the senior generation.  Carefree old surfer friends I spent hours with on the beach are now posting pictures of skin cancer surgeries and warning young people to use sunscreen.  I listen to the lyrics of some of the music the “kids” love now and actually think, WHAT are they saying? (seriously though, makes Madonna’s racy “Like a Virgin” sound downright corny).  The era of joyful wedding parties has now been replaced by shocking divorce announcements, and my friends and I sometimes sit around and talk wistfully about yes, the good old days when times were simpler and slower, and people were nicer.  I am very lucky to have a large group of fun-loving, youthful friends who, like me, believe that sometimes laughter really is the best medicine, but 52 is not 22 no matter how you slice it, inject it, nip it or tuck it.

My respect for my parents’ generation is now mingling with a tender understanding.  There truly are important lessons in life that can only be learned through time and experience.  So as I start my 53rd journey around the sun this Saturday, I hope to take with me childlike wonder when I encounter the new, a continued appreciation for the simple beauty of nature, and an awareness of where my time and energy are best focused – oh, and probiotics for travel digestion and my glasses in case I have to drive at night.