11

The dizzying joy of watching your child get older, the challenge of separating their story from your own, and why saying "they grow up too fast" is all wrong in my books.

Yesterday, Olive turned 11 years old.

The night before her birthday, after she had a bath, brushed her teeth, and got into bed (a double now, since outgrowing her single last spring), I snuggled in beside her to say goodnight. As we were talking, she asked if I would read to her. “I'm almost finished The Wizard of Oz,” she said, “and it’s been forever since you read to me.”

She was right. Not quite forever, maybe, but certainly a few years. Somewhere along the way, our routine went from me reading to her each night, to her reading on her own. It’s one of those small shifts that I didn't quite register at the time. Truth be told, I was probably even a little relieved to get that half hour of my evenings back.

This is the way it happens. You lose these little things bit by bit without even noticing, until one evening, you’re nestled in with your almost-eleven-year-old, reading to her again and wondering when you'd stopped.