12+12=12

Every year for the past twelve years, my mother and oldest sister have celebrated my twelfth birthday. It all started when I visited my sister at college. She ran around behind me, warning all her male friends that I was only twelve and laughed as shivers ran down their spines at the thought of their own thoughts about me. That was the first time I visited Jenn at St. John’s. Every subsequent year I visited her there, she continued to tell her friends that I was twelve. When I protested, she informed me that I’d always be twelve to her.

My mother soon picked up on what she thought was a spectacular joke. I didn’t even mind it so much, but they still got a kick out of continuing the joke. I even enjoyed playing along. My mother put twelve candles on all my birthday cakes, even my “sweet sixteen”. “Can’t break the tradition!” Even now my mother likes to bring the joke up, pushing my hair out of my face, lovingly, “my forever twelve year old girl”. It took me until now to realize all the irony of this running joke.