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By: Sarah Thompson
My daughter, Emily, is nearly twelve years old—a remarkably mature eleven, if I may say so myself. (Yes, I’m a bit biased, but the experience of watching a loved one battle illness can certainly accelerate emotional growth.) For the past few years, I’ve seen her flirt with the idea of becoming a young woman, preparing to leave childhood behind. Brief glimpses of the adult she would become shone through, but for the most part, she was still a child. That was until yesterday. In a blink, the child I knew seemed to vanish.
Yesterday, I invited Emily to join me for a manicure while her younger brother entertained himself. As always, I let her choose the salon. I expected her to opt for the one with the “color-changing water,” a favorite spot of hers. Instead, she shrugged and said, “I don’t know, whatever’s closer.”
For a while, Emily had been dabbling in “grown-up” activities, pretending to care about things that teenagers often do. She would occasionally voice her indifference towards the “color-changing water,” only to reverse her decision at the last moment. Toys would go into the donation box, but she’d hesitate over that one stuffed animal she couldn’t bear to part with. She’d claim she wanted to be alone in her room, yet within minutes, she’d sneak back downstairs to check on us.
But yesterday felt different. The way she said “whatever’s closer,” the indifferent shrug, and her lack of excitement about the “color-changing water” struck a chord with me. Something had changed, and it happened in an instant. I blinked, and I missed the moment when she transitioned from playing at being a young woman to truly becoming one.
This change has been a long time coming. For years, she has been navigating her own identity, figuring out who she is and who she wants to become. I had promised myself to cherish each moment, especially the last remnants of her childhood, knowing that “lasts” are just as significant as “firsts” and often harder to recall.
There are already too many “lasts” I didn’t capture in my memory. I can’t remember the last time I rocked her to sleep, the final time she raised her arms for me to pick her up, or the last time she said “I love you,” which came out sounding like “abubu” due to her speech delay. All those moments slipped away unnoticed. I was determined not to let this last childhood moment escape me.
Yet, I still missed it. I blinked and overlooked the moment she shifted from being a child to a young adult.
That afternoon, we didn’t visit the salon with the color-changing water. It was more practical to go to another location. I can’t even tell you if there were lights in that water; my focus was solely on the young woman sitting beside me who had just the day before been more of a girl than anything else. For the first time, she chose a muted gray instead of a bright color. She didn’t look to me to speak for her; she answered on her own. Even her manner of speaking, the topics she discussed, and the inflection in her voice had matured.
It felt like a loss. I loved the young woman she was becoming and felt pride in her, but I mourned the child she had been just a day earlier. Being a parent often involves balancing the nostalgia for what was with the excitement for what is to come.
Later that evening, my son turned to Emily, his lifelong playmate. She wasn’t interested in playing. While she used to enjoy indulging him, this time I didn’t press her; I recognized she had grown, and it was time to honor that. Instead, I engaged my son in a game that combined elements of soccer, basketball, and dodgeball, inviting her to join. She declined and sat on the sidelines, embodying more of a young adult than a child.
But then, she surprised me. She stood up and joined in. It wasn’t a return to childhood, as the young woman was still very much present, shrieking and laughing. Yet, it offered a glimmer of hope that perhaps we still had time for a few more childhood “lasts” as we ventured into this new phase of young adult “firsts.”
It was a sign that even though I had blinked, maybe I hadn’t missed everything.
People often say, “The days are long, but the years are short.” They advise you to cherish the time when your kids are small because, all too soon, they will become teenagers and adults with lives of their own—lives you can only glimpse from the outside. Although I might have scoffed at such sentiments during my daughter’s temper tantrums in the grocery store, deep down, I understood their truth. Too quickly, those tantrums would fade away.
I just wish someone had warned me that I would miss it, regardless of how hard I tried to hold on. The transition from child to young adult is so gradual that it eludes the human eye and heart. Maybe it’s just a fleeting moment, or perhaps it doesn’t matter. What truly counts is ensuring she knows she is loved in every moment.
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Summary: This reflective piece captures the bittersweet moment when a parent realizes their child has transitioned from childhood into young adulthood. Through personal anecdotes, the author expresses the challenges of cherishing the fleeting moments of childhood while accepting the inevitable growth of their child. It highlights the natural progression of parenting, filled with both loss and pride, as well as the importance of showing love throughout each stage of life.