My little cousin, the girl who convinced me that eating green bananas was healthy, who talked me into shaving my belly button thatch (which then grew in black and wiry), who insisted that we wear matching purple dresses for an entire weekend; the girl I used to catch lizards with, fight with, chase boys around Disneyworld with, get caught smoking cigarettes with; this girl became a grandmother yesterday. My little cousin.

She hasn’t been my “little” cousin in years. We’ve always lived apart, and her world became serious much sooner than mine when she had her first baby while I was still dawdling around with that guy I’d called my husband. She grew up long before I did. She’s tough, quick-witted, and stone-cold practical like our Scottish grandmother had been. She’s a matriarch in a man’s profession, and a mother who can father. And she’s gorgeous. And now she’s a grandmother. Fuck.

I gotta say, I thought I had it all figured out. I was growing accustomed to friends getting cancer, to parents getting feeble, to nieces and nephews growing up and having kids of their own. Hell, my brother has been a grandparent for thirteen years. But I wasn’t prepared for my dearest childhood friend to introduce a tiny granddaughter to the world.

It’s sinking in now. It makes sense. I knew this baby was coming. I just needed a minute to breath, to regroup, to remember that we’re grownups now.