To E

 Two years ago, you were in first grade and beginning to make real friends who were of just your own making. A few houses down from us lived Kay. She was in second grade, and you chatted together at the bus stop and on the way to and from school. She started to ask if you could come over to her house to play, and you began asking us if she could come to our house. 

You and Kay were different kids. She was the youngest child, the only one at home, and was accustomed to playing independently. You are the eldest child, and had a 2 year old brother who insisted on being part of everything. The way you played was so sweetly accommodating of him, but the way Kay wanted to play was simply older and more mature than you were capable of. Over time, you spent less and less time together. A new girl moved in across the street who Kay befriended, and you grew closer to Jay, the little girl at the other end of the street who has several big siblings and a little sister close in age to your little brother. There are no hard feelings anywhere, we all still greet one another affectionately when we cross paths. 

This afternoon we went on a bike ride, all of us together. Now you're in third grade, and Kay is in fourth. You were blazing down the street wearing light-up pink sneakers, your pink sweater with black hearts tied around your waist, and your Lisa Frank-esque psychedelic unicorn helmet atop your joyful face. Your life is still centered around sparkles and singing while you swing and shoes that flash and flip sequins and Dragon dance routines of your own invention. 

We ran into Kay and her friend. I watched Kay from a distance, feeling a distinctly motherly pang of sadness that their childhoods are slipping past so quick. She was always gangling and thin, but this year her gangling youth has gained the beginning of elegance. It brought a smile to my face to recognize the beginning of her adolescent experimentations with identity and trend, finding where she belongs. She got a short haircut, had worn red Chuck Taylors on her feet. Knee high black and white striped socks, fingerless gloves, oversized cardigan and shorts. Her bike is big, surely it can't be a kids size anymore. 

Will you need an adult bike next year? How long do I have before you trade unicorns and mermaids for eyeliner and ever-present headphones? Don't get me wrong, kid; I'm here for it. Watching you grow up is the greatest honor of my life. But I see Kay changing, and I see you changing, too. I know you're almost eight and a half now. You aren't a little child anymore. You rejoice in counting down and reminding us how long until you're a teenager, until you can drive, until you can vote. (Yeah, turning eighteen means voting to you, and I can't tell you how amazing I find that.)

Ten years ago, Mom and I were in foster care training classes, and I'll never forget one particular thing we learned: Every stage of maturity and newfound independence is cause for both celebration AND grief. Celebrate moving forward and growth. But we must also mourn the loss of what used to be, what is gone. You need me less and less, at least in the way small children need their parents. You can make your own snacks and meals. You choose all your own outfits. You can brush and style your hair (dubiously, but nonetheless). You're an amazing help with your little brothers. 

I got to carry your dangling arms and legs and your strong, thin, big kid body to bed a few nights ago. You fell asleep on the couch reading books with Mom. It was hard to fit you through the doorway while I held you, and I laughed. I used to be THE BEST at laying your small sleeping form down in bed so slowly and gently that you wouldn't wake. You were the easiest baby to wake up and the hardest to get to sleep. Now you are so difficult to get out of bed that I know the universe is cackling out new, stubborn stars to celebrate the ways you challenge us. 

Tonight, I'll close my eyes and remember how round your sweet pink cheeks used to be when you grinned. I'll do my best to remember your slightly gravelly small voice, and the way you used to say "lasterday" and "starflake" and "shicken". I'll smile and a tear will roll as I say goodbye to your small ways and your little chubby hands and your incorrect pronunciations. I'll smile as I think of all the grand things in your life that you've yet to experience (and as I privately rejoice that you still say "trocklate" instead of "chocolate"). 

Love always, 
Mama