It’s a double-edged sword watching your youngest child grow up. While my little one is only nine years old, she is the last of my children. I’m done. I have done my Earth-populating duty. She’s the youngest of five and someone else can pick up the child-bearing slack henceforth.
The other night, while using her “practice” knife (aka a paring knife) to cut tomatoes for tacos, my daughter decided to have a talk with me. She needed to address some pressing issues.
“Mom. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m growing up. I’m cutting tomatoes, I can make my own eggs, and I’m learning to cook more and more. You need to work with me. If I’m old enough to cut tomatoes, I am old enough to cook more on the stove. I can reach the sink now and do the dishes without a step stool.”
She was so serious; so matter-of-a-fact. It made me smile she thought she needed to take the initiative and let me know how she’s not a (young) child any more; that I needed let her grow.
I admit, I am a bit sad she’s becoming so independent. However, not sad enough to begin the procreation process again. Just making that point clear. On the flip side of that coin, I enjoy watching her independence grow. My lil miss has been an enormous help in doing daily chores that I just don’t get to everyday. Granted, she’s motivated by a small allowance, but she still does the chores on her own. If she forgets, she doesn’t get paid for that day.
Learning to do laundry, learning to cook, learning to shop, learning to make responsible food decisions. A transformation is taking place and I have a front row seat. I am in awe and saddened at the same time. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am doing my job in raising a responsible adult, but I miss my baby. In my baby’s stead stands a young woman who will continue to grow in body, knowledge and independence.