As I walk my daughter to school, she exclaims, “We didn’t even get crayons this year!” Her disbelief is palpable, and I can see that this marks a moment of sadness for her. “It’s the first year without crayons,” she laments again. I assure her that I did pay for them, and after a kiss on her cheek, I watch her slender nine-year-old figure disappear into the school building before I head back home.
This disappointment over crayons is part of her larger struggle with the feeling of growing up too fast. I can’t help but notice that not every nine-and-a-half-year-old sits around contemplating the loss of their childhood, but my daughter, a deeply sensitive soul, does. The sudden passing of her father when she was just 21 months old has made her acutely aware of time and its bittersweet nature. I too have felt this ache; every milestone she reaches serves as a reminder of what her father has missed.
As she transitions from a carefree little girl to an increasingly serious tween, I find myself in a similar phase of change. Now at 42, I realize that my thirties were consumed by grief and parenting. They vanished before I could grasp what was happening. I’m still single, working diligently on my writing career, and often living in a state of survival. Meanwhile, the other parents in our suburban community chat about renovations and vacations, while I scroll through social media and see friends’ well-established careers and accolades. Just as my daughter mourns the loss of crayons, I yearn for the carefree days of my thirties, when I felt more in sync with my peers.
My daughter misses the laughter and attention of her younger years. “No one finds me cute anymore,” she says one day, her disappointment evident. I reflect on the days when strangers would tell me to savor every moment with her as we strolled through the grocery store. She claims to feel awkward on playgrounds now, but she longs for the endless hours spent swinging on monkey bars until her hands were blistered. Surprisingly, I miss those long, unhurried days too. Now, there seem to be milestones everywhere—recitals, graduations, and the like.
This year has been marked by new experiences for her, like getting her ears pierced and wearing a palate expander. “I wish I could go back to not having pierced ears or braces!” she cries in frustration. For me, it’s been a series of new medical experiences—yearly mammograms that compress my body into an unfamiliar shape, introducing terms like “highly dense breast tissue” and navigating the onset of perimenopause.
Both of us feel a little blindsided by these changes. I realize that I’m in the middle of my life, while my only child is also in the midst of her own childhood. In just nine years, she’ll be off to college. We have only eight more summers to enjoy family vacations together. I’m in a phase of life that I barely recognize, and it’s not where I envisioned myself. Yet here we are, both of us navigating this middle ground.
The middle is often overlooked; it lacks the excitement of a new beginning or the satisfaction of an ending. Yet, it’s typically where transformation occurs. It might manifest as braces and awkwardness or as a realization that change is necessary. Brene Brown wisely notes that during midlife, “you’re going down, and after that there are only two choices: staying down or enduring rebirth.”
One night, my daughter breaks down in tears, expressing how she misses the carefree days of her youth. “Everything was so new and exciting. I wish I had enjoyed being little!” I can’t help but smile inwardly at her mature insight, but I fully understand her feelings. I comfort her and acknowledge that it’s okay to grieve what’s been lost. Yet, I remind her, “You’re still a child. If you spend your time wishing to be younger, you’ll wake up at 13 and realize you missed this wonderful time of being nine.” “You’re right,” she says thoughtfully.
After her emotional release, we both feel lighter and cuddle up like always while reading in my bed. That night, instead of a lengthy novel, she chooses some of our beloved picture books. She proudly wiggles her newest loose tooth, even if it does hurt a bit.
The next morning, after dropping her off, I take my usual 30-minute walk, relishing the stretch of my legs and the bright yellow of blooming forsythias. I put on what I call my “mid-life red” lipstick and head to Trader Joe’s for groceries. While I usually buy just one bouquet of flowers, I find myself running back to grab a second bunch of daffodils. The future feels uncertain—more doctor appointments, meaningful conversations with my daughter, and perhaps a few surprises along the way. Maybe I’ll even publish a book or fall in love again. But for now, it’s spring, and I refuse to miss it.
In summary, navigating the mid-lives of both a mother and her daughter reveals the bittersweet nature of growing up and growing older. While grappling with the changes and losses, both find solace in the present and the shared moments they still have together.