You might be getting tired of my woeful posts about my ten-year-old growing up, but people, it's not been easy. Sitting with a sense of unease, I pound the keyboard trying to make sense of my rapidly maturing daughter.
This morning at 7:30, I dropped her off in the rain at the busstop. She is going on her first overnight school trip to a town about one hour away. Standing with the other talkative mothers, I felt like a duck out of water. They didn't seem at all concerned (or perhaps their incessant chatter was masking their own discomfort). My daughter stood next to her friend, beaming with a blend of thrill and fear.
Should I go? I whispered to her. She looked down at her shoes, then quietly replied, "Sure." Then, with the confidence I know so well, she added, "But don't you dare call me..." Baby. I mouthed the word, then smiled weakly, walking backwards and away from her. She grinned encouragingly, then turned to her friend, engaging in a lively conversation of which I am no longer a part.
