My beautiful little girl is twelve today. I thought I'd feel sentimental with her entering junior high this week, but think I've used up most of my sentimentality on other things lately. Instead, I feel mystified by her. She's so complex, and different than I was. I watch her and am fascinated.
She's a girly girl who loves fashion and clothes. Her friends mean the world to her. She thinks she's awesome and is having trouble with a school assignment that asks her what she would change about herself; she says nothing. She wants to be a pro soccer player when she grows up and practices every day in the backyard. She cries about change and doesn't want to grow up. She likes math. She plays the trumpet. She idolizes Selena Gomez. She still snuggles with me on the couch.
I love everything about her. If I were her age right now, I'd definitely want her for a friend.
How lucky I am instead to be her mother. I've had the privilege of watching her blossom for the past twelve years into a beautiful young lady. I secretly admire her. Well, actually, it's not such a secret. She's absolutely beautiful, and today she is twelve.
Aww, happy belated!
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