My girl will be eleven in a month. She's all fashion and interior design and smelly markers and starlight.
We walked through a toy store today, and I realized she's outgrown all but two of the aisles.
As I explained to Steph how I taught my girl to roller skate when she was the wee one's age, I could hardly believe my own daughter leaving me behind on the ice. I remember wanting to teach her all the things so she wouldn't be as hesitant as I was to take risks as a child. I didn't grow into my capacity until I graduated high school.
After we left the ice rink and drove home, my girl commenting on Zeppelin and asking for a phone yet again, I found myself wondering when her voice stopped sounding like Minnie Mouse. When did she realize my dance moves suck? How intimately does she see my flaws? And how does she love me, anyway?
She asks when she can wear makeup. I say seventh grade. She's never asked that before. Something new is starting to shift even as we discuss the merits of Legoland.
I made that seventh grade shit up on the fly.
I remember how terrifying it was to grow up.
I didn't think about the terror in growing older.
At this point, though, is the comforting knowledge that once you're strapped in and at the top of the hill, the roller coaster's going to drop, no matter how you feel about it.