Today is my daughter’s 9th birthday, and she seems okay with it. Now. Last night she was tearful, wanting to “stay 8 forever” and not have to grow up. I did my best to cheer her, telling her about all the wonderful things I could remember about being nine (leaving out the less delightful subject of my parent’s divorce) and reminding her that getting older can also mean getting stronger and smarter and more able. And I do believe that, but I get her point too. Though I quickly tire of sameness, I hate change. I’m almost always glad of it after the fact, but when it’s first standing in front of me, I’m terrified. I probably should have shared that with her, there in the dark room. Either it would help her go to sleep, or give her fodder for more fearful thinking. At what point in their development are children really ready to hear that their parents get scared too? That we worry about what’s waiting around the bend in a very deep and existential way that keeps us from sleep. Maybe not the best thing to bring up to a child who already dwells too often on subjects outside her scope of responsibility, especially when she’s crying.
She did fall asleep, finally accepting assurances that she is still a child, that the rhyme elves and other mythical creatures will still leave tokens for her–that the magic will not fade away until she is ready to let it.
