Rainy Day Wren: letting go

Thursday, October 6, 2011

letting go

Its picture day. The day when all of your cuteness is scaled down to 2" x 3" to be passed around amongst friends.

Both girls wanted curls, so last night, after baths, we sat with strips of fabric and a comb. While I wrapped sections of hair, they sat on a pillow in front of me watching a decorating show with high hopes for pretty curls.

This morning was the big reveal and touch up with a curling iron. Ella bounces away her curls bouncing in rhythm. "I look pretty," she sings. Sadie goes through catalogs looking for how she hopes her hair will look, all with comments of, "Kind of like this but different." I try to make it look how I think she wants and ask, "Like this." Her words say, "that's fine," her expression says something else. I turn her to face me and say, "Honey, you look beautiful."

"Thanks Mom."

In the car she sits in the passenger seat. I'm torn between worrying about her safety and wanting her to know that growing up has its privileges. I reach over and offer her my hand, she slips her hand in mine. The same little hand that used to wrap around my finger, now matches mine in size. I drive down the street not letting go, grateful she still wants to hold my hand. I maneuver turns one handed afraid to let go, fearing I'd be letting go of more than just her hand

She used to talk nonstop. Not anymore. She used to follow me through the house, telling me stories of her dreams, her playing, her day. Not anymore. She used to fit on my chest, her head tucked under my chin, her legs not quite reaching my waist. Now she is almost as tall as me. She borrows my shirts, my shoes, my jewelry. "Mom, can I wear your..."

"I guess so." I'm letting go. Her world is no longer just my world. I hope she's ready.

We get to school, she lets go of my hand. The door opens to, "Sadie, your hair looks so cute." Two girls crowd the car, praising her picture day look, lamenting their own. She turns to me with a big smile, "Bye Mom."