She asks to put on a crown, and I let her.

I’m surprised by this request, because playing princess is not something we do. It’s not that I’m opposed to it, but she just cares more about coloring and puzzles and reading books.

She points to this crown that, for some reason, is sitting on the dresser in her bedroom. It’s old and the metal is not shiny—it’s actually from a Halloween costume of mine, from easily 15 years ago.

I pick it up, and its heaviness is not expected. I put the little combs fused to its sides onto her already-existing crown of curls. She looks immediately in the mirror and smiles. She tells me that she’d like a picture taken, in her favorite spot in front of a door in the living room, which is again something she hasn’t wanted to do lately. I realize later, after this picture is taken, that she has carefully and quickly chosen her princess doll to haphazardly hold in this photo.

Earlier that morning, she was in the bathroom with me, and she held my husband’s childhood stuffed dog by one ear. I looked at her and silently took in this image, of her so immersed in childhood that she held this toy dog loosely, and without over-thinking it, yet not unkindly. This rumpled appearance of my daughter’s still-sleep-filled eyes and her belly kind of sticking out from her pajamas, in the bathroom with me after waking up made my heart swell almost indescribably.

Childhood is fragile. It’s here, and then—in a rush—it’s gone. It’s shiny and new, curious and inventive—and then it’s faded, and worn, and from long ago.

I remember, as a little girl myself, feeling torn between wanting desperately to be older, while also knowing that this meant the loss of something that was beyond my ability to truly grasp.

She walks around the house proudly in the crown.

Suddenly, she does a huge dive onto her bean bag chair, and the crown flies off.

Disappointingly, she gets up to find it, and I tell her that this crown isn’t exactly meant for her more typical roughhousing, but that maybe she can wear it for a bit and then take it off to play. She looks at the crown, now in her hand, and gives it to me, shaking her head and saying “no.” I breathe in a sigh, relieved that she’s not yet ready for this crown, today.

The post The Brilliance of Her Growing Up. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

It happened somewhere between childish toddler legs and long thighs.

I noticed—almost suddenly—the way you began to articulate your thoughts in a precise manner that was no longer babyish. More, you started using phrases and gestures from school; from other kids; from life outside of the one that you share, with me.

Your face is more angular in places. You’ve always been genuinely beautiful, but now your beauty supersedes babyhood.

You are only five. You are already five. You are a little girl and, officially, no longer my baby (although, as all parents everywhere can attest—you will always be my baby).

I gently fold and place the clothes that you’ve outgrown into crates for your sister to one day wear. You love clothes and have many special outfits that are attached to memories, and I hate to see them no longer fit.

When your sister was born, I unpacked your once-upon-a-time baby clothes.

I took out sweaters that had stains just there at the top, near the collar. At first, I wondered why I had saved them. Why would I have decided to store stained baby clothing? But then I looked closer and that wasn’t a stain at all, but the moment when you first tried pears and weren’t sure what you thought, or the afternoon you fell instantly in love with avocados (still one of your favorites).

Our life over the last five years has included a decent amount of change.

We’ve experienced another birth, two moves, a new job for your daddy and many other small things that would possibly be trivialities to someone looking at our lives, but when you’re living inside of these changes, they are significant—especially for a child.

Everything in my life has meaning, with you.

You move through transition with more grace than most adults, much less any other child I’ve previously met. I’ve tried as hard as I can to maintain continuity, but, with life, change is at times inevitable, especially with a new, growing, thriving little family.

It’s also easy, as a stay-at-home mother, to stop noticing these tiny things that make up your childhood.

It’s easy to hop on Facebook instead of watch how you read to your dolls.

It’s simple to gloss over how well you color now, or how opinionated you are about what the baby wears that day. Yet, when I stay right here inside of my days, with you, I can tell how your slightest gesture or glance says an awful lot about how very much you are developing—and leaving your childhood slowly behind.

I imagine each step with an outgrown item from your closet behind you, in a slow trail like Hansel and Gretel. Much like that story, this trail will also become invisible.

It will never be invisible, to me.

I might miss—one day, and in my own busy hurry—to properly pay attention to the exact moment your shirt became too short to put on, or how your hair falls past your shoulders rather than brushing them at the tops, but I will always lovingly secret away your silent steps of growth, in my tender mommy-breast.

Because my heart has recognized what my brain has known for awhile: and then you were a girl.

The post And Then You Were a Girl. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.