We are growing up around here. In little and big ways, I notice early childhood is fully behind us as we careen into middle childhood and the teenage years at full speed.
Sometimes the signs are obvious. My daughter is two inches taller than me now (not a huge feat given my lack of height, but noteworthy nonetheless) and we wear the same size shoe. She is a graceful human at home in her own skin who could pretty much run her own life, if only she could drive. It has been a joy watching her blossom into a young adult!
When my son takes off on his bike to visit friends in the neighborhood, he puts his helmet on without a reminder and tucks our tracphone in his pocket (usually calling me five times in a quarter mile, which I love!) These right-sized adventures are happening more frequently, balanced with a sprinkling of “Mommy, will you come with me?” if they seem a bit too large to face alone that day.
The signs of growing up hit me like a 2x4 some days. A couple weeks ago, I stepped into the living room to find both kids sprawled on separate couches, completely engrossed the books they were reading. That same week, Jack (our very early riser who typically plays with legos until we all get up with the sun) fixed a breakfast of cereal, yogurt, and toast for the four of us, complete with folded napkins and table settings, while he waited for us to get up.
Sometimes the signs of growing up are more subtle. We’ve recently been in the “nobody likes me, I guess I’ll go eat worms” seven-year-old stage for the second time around. Then quietly, floating just below my line of perception over the course of several months, the next stage shows up, this one more resilient, independent, and self-confident. What in January would have sent my son into a tailspin he now easily shakes off or pushes through.
Sometimes my kids don’t want to grow up. On her fourth birthday, my daughter informed me she was not planning on actually being four for a while. I told her that was fine and to let me know whenever she was ready. A couple days later she announced that NOW she was four.
Six years later, that same girl who now rests her chin on my head when we hug, informed me in late August before middle school that she wasn’t going to be a sixth grader yet. I told her that was fine and to let me know whenever she was ready. A day before school started, she announced that maybe being a sixth grader would be okay and that she would give it a try.
We’re about a month away from her twelfth birthday. As we snuggled the other night (I’ll keep going with that ritual until I’m kicked out!), I reminded her of these stories and asked with a twinkle in my eye if she was ready to turn 12. She answered without hesitation, “Definitely!” After pausing for a minute, she said, “Mommy, maybe you’re the one who isn’t ready anymore.”
Indeed. And yet…the joy I feel watching my children grow up surprises me. I expected to pine for the early years as they grew, but instead I find myself appreciating the accumulated experience (dare I call it wisdom?) that comes from growing up as a parent - this beloved part of who I am - right alongside them.