Growing Up

I remember standing in my bedroom as a little kid.  Worrying, as usual.  Just standing and worrying.  Worrying about growing up and not being able to slow it down.  I loved being a kid.  I’d hit the birth jackpot with my parents, so life as a kid was just as it was meant to be.  I was particularly concerned about growing breasts.  I didn’t want to go bra shopping with my mom.  Cause I didn’t want to need one.  If only I’d known that wouldn’t be an issue.  

I didn’t successfully slow the process so here I am today with kids of my own.  I have a little boy who gets me.  He is 3 years old but admits only to being 2.  He tells me he will use the potty when he is “older” and he hangs on to the tantrums traditionally associated with 2 year olds.  As the sister says, “3 is a tough age.  But a fun one.”  Yes, child, you are right.  But he doesn’t want to grow up.  That’s ok.  Stay little, little one.  

Then there is my girl.  It is March 8 today.  I don’t like March 8.  It is the day before her birthday.  I put my own past feelings of not wanting to grow up on her and get all sentimental.  I want to do everything “one more time while she’s still this age.”  One more book.  One more kiss.  One more picture.  One more…

But she’s not me and that’s good.  She embraces growing older.  She is excited to be five years old.  She boldly looks ahead instead of peering behind.  She prides in the things she has learned at four and carries them ahead to add to them.  The beginnings of reading.  The desire for knowledge.  How to dress herself, bathe herself, brush her teeth.  How to play cars with brother because it makes him happy.  How to be a big sister twice over.  And even how to wake up at night to pee.  

So here I am struggling with the urge to do everything with you again before you fall asleep.  You’re in bed colouring, not at all concerned about getting older.  I guess that’s just me.  

Well, at least I have a few years before bra shopping.