My heart shed tears this morning, if that is possible. My baby girl is no longer a baby. She hasn’t been for quite some time, but today it really hit home. We were clothes shopping. Size 1 is no longer for babies. It’s for a young woman, formerly my baby girl.
We started our trip out in the girls department like usual, when it became glaringly obvious that the stacks of sparkly heart shirts had seen their days. We walked through and she was clearly uninspired. I knew it was coming. I kept silent for a few extra moments, pretending I was going to outfit her here. Then I said the words every preteen longs to hear.
“Lets go check out the Junior section.” It’s like the mothership was calling her home. Eyes sparkled, choirs sang, and all was right in the world.
Then it happened. I sat there in the dressing room, sore from Insanity because 12 years later I am still trying to get some sort of figure back, and my darling girl stood across from me looking into the mirror in a pair of size 1 aqua jeans. I never thought about this day, but unexpectedly here we were. A size 1. I’m certain my own booty has never graced the likes of a size 1 pant in all my days…
But there was my girl. Looking all long and thin and beautiful and grown up and I couldn’t decide whether to cry, hug her, go fetal under the dressing room bench, or buy a shot gun… because I’m gonna need one soon.
This mothering gig gets tougher and sweeter as the days go by.
Tonight she asked if it was o.k. if she had her own flat iron and some heels.
It’s begun. A new phase. Game on.