Tuesday, September 22, 2009
My Daughter is Twelve
Twelve. Twelve. My daughter is twelve years old. Only one more year before we have a teenager in the house!
This weekend her friends will come over to celebrate with a spa party (manicures, face masks, art therapy corner), game session, and movie night. Next month we'll go to the ballet, just us, mother and daughter, for a girls' night out.
Twelve. Same age as Meg in A Wrinkle in Time, Vicky in Meet the Austins, Claudia in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, and - gulp - Patty Bergen in Summer of My German Soldier.
When can I date? she asks. And don't say thirty the way you always joke around.
Thirty-five? I say with a grin.
Already she has stood up for her political beliefs and for her convictions about gay rights. Already she has been both excited about a guy and disappointed by a guy. She has tried on some make-up (then decided she didn't need it), been concerned about weight and exercise, had to negotiate school life and theater commitments. She wants to take self-defense classes. She's worried about global warming. She dreams of having a pet chinchilla. She's considering singing with the adult choir in church.
She's beautiful and smart and kind and exuberant.
A blink of an eye ago we were bringing her home from the hospital wrapped in swaddling blankets.
Where did all the time go?