Every now and then, the laughter that erupts from her lips shatters the silence. I open my eyes to find her making playful faces at her phone screen—pouty lips, dramatic eyes, both innocent and audacious. The world lies before her, brimming with potential, and she stands at the precipice of exploration.
At 12, her mood swings are as expected, yet she rebounds quickly, worming her way into my heart. She embodies the comfort of cozy loungewear, a refuge. A mere lift of her lip, and we dissolve into giggles over trivial matters.
In my mind, she glows with vibrancy—her carefree spirit, her silliness, her occasional desire for my company (most of the time). She’s an athlete, a jokester, and sometimes, a little too free with her language. I like to think she inherited two of those traits from me.
But there are moments when I open my eyes and see her as a young woman, this child of mine. Recently, she leaves her bedroom door ajar, and when I push it gently, it creaks open to reveal her standing there in her fourth outfit of the hour. On her bed lies a jumble of jean shorts and several similar yellow T-shirts, each one previously deemed cute and clean, now discarded in her quest for the perfect look. Not today, perhaps tomorrow.
I close my eyes and remember the little girl who would dip her sun-kissed toes into an overflowing bucket on the beach, crinkling her nose against the bright sun. She would reach out for my hand, knowing I would always be there to support her. Behind closed eyelids, she is six, or maybe five, or even four. Her blonde hair and blue eyes still capture my heart as she whispers her little stories. Today is meant for fun—not seriousness. Tomorrow may bring that.
Opening my eyes again, I see her leaning over the steering wheel, trying to channel her inner driver as she sprawls across my lap. Her arms entwined with mine, she radiates confidence. She’s 12 now, eager to learn the rules of the road, and our nightly ritual turns into a lesson about life’s complexities. Each time she swerves, my heart races, reminding me how fleeting these moments can be.
I close my eyes once more, and she dances across the room—perhaps she’s seven, eight, or nine, lost in her own carefree rhythm. Her impromptu dance moves elicit laughter from me. She’s the star of her own show, her hair a shimmering cascade as she leaps from couch to chair, collapsing into fits of joy.
Together, we navigate this world, yet she remains distinctly herself. Her strong will and stubbornness can be amusing, though she can’t sustain that facade for long. Anytime she attempts to mask her anger, a silly grin inevitably breaks through. Yes, she can be annoying—after all, she is 12.
Her passions include basketball, the latest gossip, and unrestrained happiness. She seems to know everything, hear everything, and see everything. For now, she’s present, but at times, she seeks solitude. There are moments when she shuts the door, craving space. I can see the unmistakable signs of a 12-year-old on the brink of transformation. Sometimes she embodies soft music that resonates deeply within me, and at times, she tiptoes around with secrets.
Yet, there are instances when she is once again that two, three, or four-year-old snuggling into my lap, her warmth filling the crook of my arm, her breath a gentle reminder of the bond we share. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing to hold onto these fleeting moments. Time is precious, and I know tomorrow she will be 13, then 15, and eventually 20. It’s the inevitable journey of my child.
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Summary
Parenting a 12-year-old is a blend of laughter, nostalgia, and the bittersweet recognition of impending change. As they navigate their way through adolescence, moments of joy and reflection intertwine, reminding us of the fleeting nature of childhood. Embracing this journey involves cherishing the present while preparing for what lies ahead.
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