Recycling & Repurposing

I wrote this piece about my (then 11 yo) daughter 5 years ago. "What sucks more than being 11?" was my way of capturing the angst and growing pains she was experiencing at the time. It is infinitely interesting to now view this 5 years hence - to see how she's grown and changed during that time, including her views of me. I still think it sucks to be 11, but apparently it also sucks to be 16. That's a post for another day. In the meanwhile, I've allowed my work-life to overshadow my writing-life this week and am recycling this older piece, repurposing it for my current blog. Hope you enjoy it.

What I learned today: Recycling & repurposing can make you cry.

What sucks more than being 11?
It sucks to be 11 years old. Just ask my daughter. She’s caught in limbo – literally…purgatory, that place between heaven and hell. Not a child anymore, though not yet a young woman. Seeing her deal with such raw emotions every day brings back the same memories to me. The ones I wanted so much to just leave my mind and never return, because when you’re eleven it’s all quite dramatic. 

Both my girls, like me, were late bloomers. Of course, now as a parent I’m terribly grateful for them to not grow up too quickly. But I remember how devastating it was for everyone else to be “ahead of me” in nearly every sense of the word – not yet time to shave…no need for a bra…can’t wear make-up or high heels…no period. No matter how many times I read Judy Blume’s book, I couldn’t will puberty on fast enough!

My daughter is a microcosm of me – truly a “mini me.” It’s like looking in a mirror. She looks like me, has the same interests and talents, and the same tendency to make much more out of a situation than is necessary. I understand her deeply, and this is what makes it so hard to step back and let her find her own way. I’d much rather draw a map for her – take two steps forward, one to the side, hop over this guy, slide down this railing, poof, you win! But then what would she learn? I don’t want her to be a soldier; rather, I want her to lead.

It makes me think back and wonder if my Mom felt the same way. Was she attuned to what I was feeling? Did she want to fix things for me? From my perspective, she was agreeably absent from my middle school dramas. She would envelop me every afternoon with a hug and a healthy snack, but I don’t recall detailed discussions about my day – who did what; she said this; he made me cry, etc. So why does my daughter feel compelled to share this with me? 

Despite what she thinks, she is quickly growing up. I see a devastatingly beautiful face behind the hair that falls in her face. She’s more gorgeous than she can even imagine. The curve of her face, the blue grey eyes, the freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks – it’s a dead sexy woman in the making. And really, who the hell wants to think of their daughter as sexy?! Her body is changing too – taut, athletic, growing curves, and a butt you can bounce a quarter off of. It’s ridiculous. 

I know she sees these changes. She’s been waiting for them. But now that they're here, it’s a little scary for her. She waffles between wanting to be more grown up – putting on make up, wearing fashionable clothes, looking “hot,” having more responsibilities and privileges – and just wanting to be a kid – running around in the mud, acting goofy, making rude noises, having no responsibilities. 

I’m the lucky recipient of her love and adoration. For some reason, she thinks I have my act together and models herself after me. How long will this last? Another month? Another year? Before too long, she’ll decide that her friends are much wiser than her mother. In the meanwhile, I’ll enjoy any moments she chooses to be with me because while she thinks being 11 sucks, having your children grow up and leave you sucks even more.