Well … I blinked.

And my first-born son turned 32 on Wednesday.

*Sigh*

Wasn’t I just 32 the other day? I could almost swear I was.

At 32, I was taking care of a 12-year-old, a 7-year-old and a 5-year old.

Thirty-two and going back to college. Being a member of college clubs like Phi Theta Kappa and Fine Arts. Cooking, baking cakes to sell, cleaning, studying. Being a mom.

Where did all that time go?

I miss being 32. That’s a pretty good number in my opinion.

No part of my body was broken. It didn’t hurt when I would bend over. I was able to accomplish so much on almost any given day.

At 32, there is still time for hope. Still time to dream. Thinking how maybe one day you can still become whatever it is you’ve always had the desire to be.

I miss 32. My children still lived under the same roof as me. It didn’t matter the roof. As long as they were there … I was home.

And I haven’t been home in a very long time.

Most people associate the word “home” with being a noun.

A place of residence. Where you live. A physical address.

Me? I’ve always considered “home” to be more of a feeling.

A contentment which no one can ever take away — no matter how hard they try.

At 32, my children were my very dearest friends.

You may ask yourself how three tiny humans who weren’t yet teenagers could possibly be my friends? And I would simply reply that they could make me laugh when no one else could even make me smile.

They were hysterically entertaining without even trying.

Considerate toward adults. Kind-hearted to everyone. Above all, they loved their mother. I couldn’t ask anything more of life.

At 32, there were birthday parties to throw. Holidays to look forward to. School and community activities to take part in.

Now, birthdays consist of a text message. And holidays are just another day on the calendar.

To those who are 32, including my Dylan, I am genuinely envious of you.

I pray you will appreciate where you are today. And I hope that you are grateful for all you have.

To those of you who are 32, I want to let you know that it is OK to be your child’s greatest friend.

Whoever created the saying parents need to be an authority figure rather than their child’s friend must not have had a very close relationship with their son or daughter.

Being a friend to your child can actually be quite a blessing.

If your child can hold you in such high regard as to confide in you, if your child can trust you enough to be honest with you and wants to be in your presence rather than with someone else, you have truly done something right.

Embrace it. Because there are so many parents who can only wish that their child thought of them in that way.

At 32, life can be pretty good.

Although at 32, I didn’t have a grandson. I had no idea what that kind of love could feel like.

At 32, all of the knowledge I had was nothing in comparison to what I know today.

At 32, there were too many things, too many people I took for granted.

And the losses which I’ve been dealt these last two decades have taught me not to be careless in taking for granted anyone ever again.

They say that age is just a number. But 32 sure is a pretty good one. Happy birthday, Dylan.

(Stenger is the community editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times.)