The group of girls outside the bookstore appeared to be junior high-aged. There were four of them at the table, each girl with a latte in her hand, very grown up and sophisticated.
They were talking eagerly about whatever it is girls in junior high talk about these days. Boys, makeup, ObamaCare? Justin Bieber? I don’t know, but it was an engaging discussion, whatever the subject, punctuated by much laughter and occasional hushed voices.
As I walked by, I caught snippets of their conversation.
“…and she wasn’t even supposed to be there!”
“She’ll never take her side.”
I had two of my four children with me that day, the baby in the stroller, and my 6-year-old daughter, holding my hand. She was thrilled to be on a date with “only mommy,” having left her 3-year-old and 8-year-old brothers at home. The baby, at only 11 months, has yet to gain personhood in the children’s eyes.
She pulled me around the table of preteens, eager to get inside so she might choose a cake pop at the coffee stand. A hush fell over the group, and I noticed a woman about my age approach the table. One of the girls turned her cell phone face down. The woman asked the group if they wanted to stay put for a few more minutes, or accompany her to the nearby bed and bath store while she picked up a few items.
“Thanks, Mom. We’ll stay here.”
“Uh. Yeah.”
She walked away, and the girls resumed their conversation.
It was jarring to watch. She’s an outsider, I thought to myself. They don’t want to include her.
I turned this realization over in my head as my daughter talked happily about cake pops, debating the merits of each flavor and finally settling on red velvet. She swung my hand back and forth cheerfully, the way little girls do with their buddies. I’m still on the inside with her. We’re buddies, my little girl and me, and there are few people in her world cooler than I am.
For now.
Only six years ago, she was my baby girl. “Be my little baby forever,” I would beg, trying to memorize her in her footy pajamas, so chubby-cheeked. But she didn’t. My children have been very disobedient in that regard, each one shedding babyhood before I was ready.
Six more years will pass in a blink, and she’ll be 12. She’ll be at that table with those girls. She’ll lower her voice as I approach. She’ll have a separate life from me. Will I die a little inside when she pulls away? Or will I be relieved to shop shower curtain rings by myself?
I squeezed her hand and tried not to think about it.
For now, she’s mine. For now….is so short.
(Betsy Swenson can be reached at sliindelife@gmail.com.)