Updated: April 1, 2020
Originally Published: May 3, 2019
As I walked my daughter, Chloe, to school this morning, she looked at me with disbelief. “We didn’t even get crayons this year!” she exclaimed. “It’s the first year without crayons,” she repeated, her disappointment palpable. I assured her that I had, in fact, paid for crayons, kissed her goodbye, and watched her slender nine-year-old frame disappear into the building before making my way home.
Chloe’s lament about the absence of crayons is part of a broader sentiment she has been expressing lately about growing up. I can’t say how many nine-year-olds ponder the loss of their childhood, but this one certainly does. Chloe is sensitive and introspective, and I suspect her feelings are compounded by the fact that her father passed away unexpectedly when she was just 21 months old. Each milestone she reaches is a reminder of the moments he missed, and I can see that she feels this loss deeply.
As she transitions from a carefree child to a more serious tween, I too am experiencing my own transformation. At 42, I realize that it’s been over seven years since my husband’s death. My thirties were consumed with grief and raising a young child, and before I knew it, I transitioned from “young mother with a small child” to a woman in her forties.
Perhaps this is a common experience. I find myself single, still pursuing a writing career, and often in survival mode. In our suburban neighborhood, parents discuss home renovations and vacations, while on social media, I see friends enjoying established careers and accolades. Just as Chloe mourns the loss of her childhood, I long for the uncomplicated years of my thirties when I felt more aligned with my peers, all of us climbing life’s hill together.
Chloe also misses the attention she received as a younger child. “Nothing I say seems as cute anymore. No one laughs as much!” she laments one morning. I, too, remember the sweet advice from older women to “enjoy her while she’s little” as I pushed her through the grocery store. She may feel awkward on playgrounds now, but she also misses swinging on monkey bars until her hands turned blistered and pink. Surprisingly, I find myself longing for those long days filled with play, knowing that childhood is fleeting.
This year has brought new experiences for Chloe, like getting her ears pierced and dealing with a palate expander. “I want to go back to the time before I had pierced ears!” she cries in frustration. Meanwhile, I’ve faced my own transitions, such as my first mammograms—an experience that compresses my breasts into an unrecognizable form. I’m now familiar with terms like “dense breast tissue” and “perimenopause,” which were foreign to me in my thirties.
It suddenly hit me one day that my only child is in the middle of her journey with me. In just nine years, she’ll be in college. We have only eight summers left for family vacations. I find myself entering the middle of my own life, a phase I barely recognize. This is not what I envisioned, but here we are together, navigating our respective middles.
The middle is often overlooked; it lacks the freshness of beginnings or the satisfaction of endings, yet it’s where transformation occurs. It could manifest as braces or an “awkward phase” or as a realization that change is needed. As Brené Brown wisely notes, “At some point during midlife, you’re going down, and after that, there are only two choices: staying down or enduring rebirth.”
One evening, Chloe finally lets her emotions flow, sobbing about how much she misses being little. “Everything was so new and exciting. I wish I had just enjoyed it then! I was so eager to grow up, and now I don’t like it!” While I can’t help but smile at her profound expression, I completely understand. I hold her tightly, reassuring her that it’s normal to grieve what’s ending but also reminding her, “You’re still in your childhood. If you keep wishing to be younger, you’ll miss out on being nine.”
After she calms down, we cuddle as we always do at bedtime, opting for a few beloved picture books instead of a longer read. With pride, she wiggles her newest loose tooth, despite the slight discomfort.
The next morning, as I drop her off at school, I take my usual 30-minute walk, savoring the vibrant colors of the blooming forsythias. I put on what I call my “mid-life red” lipstick and head to the grocery store, where I always buy flowers. Today, however, I grab an extra bouquet of daffodils. The future is uncertain: more mammograms, heartfelt conversations with Chloe, and perhaps even unforeseen surprises. But for now, it’s spring, and I intend to savor every moment.
This article was originally published on May 3, 2019.
For more insights into parenting and personal growth, check out this post on home insemination.
Summary: In navigating the emotional landscapes of both my daughter’s mid-childhood crisis and my own mid-life experiences, I discover the bittersweet nature of growth. We both reflect on what we’ve lost and what lies ahead, learning to appreciate the present while processing our feelings about the past.