Mouths of Babes

Teenhood is looming. I am beginning to see glimpses of its sullen glare in the eyes of my 10 year old daughter. A sort of sideways, cutting, judgmental look, occasionally relieved by exasperation. Oh it isn’t constant by any means. Yet. But it’s a preview. Whee. I can’t wait.

So I’m hanging on to every sweet and fun moment I can, storing them like nuts against the long winter of the soul that’s coming. Like the other day when we went shopping. For my birthday, actually, but you’d never know that by the sales slip. Talbots. Me: one pair of pants. Her: Three tops. Polo Outlet. Me: one summer shift. Her: A dress, a blouse. Brooks Brothers Outlet. Me: A fall coat for half price. Her: Four sweaters.

Part of what fuels this, I admit, is the fun of putting things on her at an age when everything looks good. When there’s no body issue to negotiate, it’s just about the color and the weight of the fabric and whether she’ll actually wear it. My mother in law joins in the fun, handing things in to the dressing room and waiting for her to model them.

So as we came out of the last store, my daughter looked up at me and said in a drop-dead Tallulah Bankhead tone of voice, “Y’know Mom, people who are too old to play with dolls play with little girls.”

I’m doomed.