As I walked my daughter, Emma, to school, she exclaimed, “We didn’t even get crayons this year!” Her voice held a mix of disbelief and sadness. “It’s the first year we didn’t have crayons,” she reiterated, and all I could do was kiss her forehead and watch her slender frame disappear into the building.
Emma’s lament about the loss of crayons is tied to her evolving sense of growing up. At just nine-and-a-half, she reflects on her childhood with a depth that surprises me. She’s a sensitive soul and a thinker, perhaps shaped by the absence of her father, who passed when she was only 21 months old. The bittersweet nature of time moving forward hits hard—each milestone she reaches reminds me of what her father has missed.
As she transforms from a carefree little girl to a more introspective tween, I, too, find myself in a transition. At 42, I am navigating the aftermath of loss, having spent my thirties focused on grief while raising a young child. Suddenly, I find myself in my forties, feeling the weight of unfulfilled expectations.
In our suburban community, other parents discuss renovations and vacations, while I’m still single, striving to establish a writing career, and living in survival mode. Just like Emma mourns the loss of her childhood joys, I long for the simplicity of my thirties when I felt more in sync with my peers.
Emma expresses her sadness over losing the attention she once garnered. “Nothing I say seems as cute anymore. No one laughs as much!” she sighs. I, too, miss the well-meaning strangers who advised me to cherish my time with her when she was little, and I can’t help but feel nostalgic for those endless summer days spent at the playground.
This year has been filled with new experiences—Emma got her ears pierced and started wearing a palate expander. “I want to go back to when I didn’t have pierced ears!” she lamented. Meanwhile, I’ve entered the realm of annual mammograms and have become acquainted with terms like “perimenopause” and “dense breast tissue.” It feels like we are both navigating uncharted waters.
Amidst these changes, I realize that the time we have together is finite. In just nine years, Emma will be off to college. As I approach the middle of my life, I find myself grappling with desires for change and renewal. Brene Brown once wrote about midlife being a moment of transformation, and that’s certainly how it feels for us.
One evening, Emma finally broke down, crying about how much she misses being little. “I was so carefree! I wish I had just enjoyed it then!” she lamented. A small smile crept onto my face, not out of amusement, but because I understood her struggle so profoundly. I held her tightly and reassured her that it’s okay to grieve what’s changing, but also to embrace the present. “You’re still in your childhood,” I reminded her. “If you keep wishing for the past, you’ll miss the joy of being nine.”
After her tears subsided, we snuggled up for bedtime reading, revisiting some of our favorite picture books. Before sleep, she proudly wiggled her loose tooth, a small reminder of the joys still to come.
The next day, I took a revitalizing walk and indulged in the vibrant colors of spring. I applied my “mid-life red” lipstick and decided to treat myself to flowers—grabbing an extra bouquet of daffodils on a whim. The future is uncertain, filled with potential surprises—more poignant talks with Emma, perhaps published work, or even love again. But for now, I savor this season of renewal and warmth.
In this shared experience of transformation, both Emma and I learn to embrace the middle—where growth and change reside.
Summary
In this reflective piece, a mother navigates the emotional landscape of her daughter’s transition into tweendom while simultaneously grappling with her own mid-life changes. Through shared experiences of longing and growth, both learn valuable lessons about cherishing the present and embracing the journey ahead.
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