Amy is pretty self-sufficient these days. Gone are the mornings spent in the bathtub with shampoo mohawks and mom-wielded soapy wash clothes. Long gone are the days of me chasing her slippery body around the tub while doing my best Elvis impersonation (“A-scrubba-scrubba-scrubba in the tubba-tubba-tubba.”) The screams of “MY HAIR!! YOU’RE KILLING ME WHEN YOU BRUSH MY HAIR!!!” have all but ceased. I noticed just last week that there are actual dents in the tube of toothpaste – a sure signal that someone besides her mother has been squeezing it. (I’m vaguely OCD about a tidy tube of toothpaste.) I don’t remember the last time I actually said, “Your teeth have fur on them. Go. Brush.” These days Amy takes care of all that herself – down to and including the contacts we bought her for her upcoming 13th birthday. She has for a long time, of course, but it hit me especially hard this morning, the first day of junior high, when I realized that my baby, my first born, the child who opened my heart, needs me less than she did yesterday.
Winter, spring, summer, or fall