Today, my oldest daughter (who turns 14 next month), takes over the wrapping of presents for a Christmas party as well as some of the decorating and cleaning. I keep interrupting her work with suggestions and advice because I just can’t believe it’s happening.
After the seventh time of my hovering intrusions, she says, “Mom, I’ve got this.”
I finally back off and make dinner.
I feel remarkably and notably at peace. It’s weird. I’m not rushing around, stressing out, or multi-tasking. What strange new world is this? Haven’t I spent over a decade in the frenzy of raising small children with the accompanying exhaustion and never feeling like it all gets finished? I look at my daughter managing all the work over there, and for once, I’m not sad about the passing of time.
I stand casually by the stove, stirring. I consider adding more ginger to the stir-fry. I consider what I might read because I have all this time to relax.
Maybe I’ll make some decaf coffee.
When I float along in this inevitable place of children growing up, it’s actually so lovely. I’m not as sad and nostalgic as I thought I might be. Instead, I’m enjoying a new season of life where I’m here with another little young adult who is also my firstborn child.
And I think she wraps presents much better than I do.