Clare's Dad

Five is a great age, isn’t it? Kids are old enough to have real conversations and do some things for themselves, like get dressed (usually) and wake up, turn on cartoons, and grab a box of cereal for breakfast without waking up the whole house (usually). But, they’re still young enough to be totally silly and cuddly and not embarrassed by kisses or hand-holding in public. Unfortunately, Clare isn’t five any more. She’s not even six. And tomorrow she won’t even be seven.

I was okay with six. I accepted seven. But on November 8 Clare will turn eight and it’s time for the madness to stop.

More and more each day, I see Clare turning into a smart, talented, conscientious young lady. She’s not the toddler who’d run and bounce around willy nilly and lose her shoes.   She’s not the Kindergartener who didn’t mind kisses at the bus stop. She’s not even the first or second grader who still needed—and accepted—help buttoning buttons or brushing her hair. And worse than that? In Clare’s opinion, being eight years old will make her a ‘tween.

I’m not sure if there’s an official definition of ‘tween, but I do know that I’m not ready to be the parent of one. Not even one who may be one or two years away from ‘tween.

I’m glad of course that Clare is becoming a smart, talented, conscientious young lady. But I also think about all of the troubles and decisions that ‘tweens and teens have to face. And what bothers me most about Clare’s age is that the end of her childhood is almost visible on the horizon now. Eight years have passed so quickly, and before I know it the goodnight kisses, bedtime stories, lullabies, games, and toys of her childhood will all be distant past.

I know that things won’t change overnight. Next week, we’ll still read and sing at night, and I’ll kiss her before she goes to sleep. We have a few years left of that I hope. But, knowing how quickly the last eight years have passed, the next few will be all too short. One day she’ll crawl into our bed for the last time. One night—maybe without even knowing it—we’ll read and sing together for the last time. Until then, every day from now on will somehow be even more special than the last eight years.

Happy birthday, Clare. I love you more than ever.