Janie is eleven today.
She’s still young enough to be excited by the magical possibilities of her birthday and a bit disappointed that she’s off school today—stupid Polar Vortex—so she has to wait to hand out cupcakes . . . but old enough to worry that none of her classmates will want to come to her party, which is at the end of the month and may or may not clash with the party of a friend.
She’s growing up, all over, and isn’t sure she likes it much. Puberty, she tells me, is kind of gross.
The struggle between her present and her future has begun, and even as she fires the first volleys in her righteous war of independence, the changes in her body and swings in her moods scare her.
It’s going to be a bumpy ride for all of us. I can see the potholes from here.
But as long as she lets me, I’ll listen and hug and do my very best to show her that she’s loved and loveable and lovely.
Because that will never change.