Our daughters are the most precious of our treasures, the dearest possessions of our homes and the objects of our most watchful love.-- Margaret E. Sangster
Eleven. I am not ready. Maeve will be eleven at 7:55pm on May 4th. Eleven means only two more years until teenager-ness. Emotionally she has been seventeen since she was four, but now the rest of her is catching up. She is finally growing. She gained six pounds this year. So, this marks the first year that the pediatrician didn't send me home with instructions to feed her more.
Maybe it is because she is so small that I have a hard time with her getting older. She doesn't look eleven, if eleven had a look to it.
Eleven means more independence and more steps ahead of me. She was three steps ahead of me at her birthday party, she had the time-table down and moved from crafts to games to presents way ahead of me. I decided Daniel and I don't have to come to the party next year, she can handle it.
Eleven means middle school. Three years until High School and seven until college. Our college fund is not ready.
Eleven means four years and eight months until a learner's permit. Didn't she just learn to ride a bike? She just left her booster seat for goodness sakes!
Eleven means that she blushes around boys.
I am not ready for eleven. She is, but I am not.