My oldest girl had herself a birthday. Trinity is, officially, two whole handfuls. She’s now ten years old.
I am not sure exactly how that happened because just yesterday she was this size:
and this week she’s suddenly old enough to go into the dressing room alone to try on clothes. My opinion, while (sometimes) patiently listened to, is no longer necessary.
I look at my daughter and I see the baby she used to be, the grouchy toddler who barked at people she didn’t like (and there were so many) while meowing at the precious few she did, the preschooler who pranced and twirled through her day, the dramatic kindergartener who discovered she really liked people after all. I see her past in every freckle and tiny wrinkle on her body.
But I also look at Trinity and I can see the beautiful woman she’s growing into. Adult shadows sometimes line her face, while grown-up sensitivity and comprehension frequently shine from her eyes. When did she start to know so much? Understand so many things?
It makes me dizzy, seeing her past and her future all at once. I’m knocked off balance and have to carefully inch my way forward, groping for familiar landmarks.
We’re in uncharted territory now.