The Last in the Nest

There has been a monumental shift in the dynamic of the Mele family. My daughter, the baby, turned 12 years old. This insidious year crept up undetected like a thief and "BAM!", she is no longer my little girl. Maybe this is a bit dramatic but as I am not the girly, drama kind I will defend my position. I am the mother of two very rambunctious and masculine boys. Boys go from being little dust devils to larger tornadoes. The very fabric of their being is rough and tumbly. They run, chase, wrestle, spit, pick boogers, shoot at invisible targets all the while making the strange sound of machine gun fire out of the small hole in their face. When they reach adolescence they rut out. Their necks enlarge, legs get hairy, and arms stretch the length of the room. The sounds coming out of the hole are the same only lower. When boys get older they are still boys and generally  remain so for the rest of their existence with a few refinements that allow them to catch the girl. Girls are a completely different story.

From the get go I have wanted my girl to have a healthy streak of masculine. I grew up as my fathers daughter that should have been his son and in said case I was treated like a boy. I worked like a boy, fought like a boy and to a large degree thought like a boy. I knew I could easily best any boy in speed or strength and as the only girl in my father's karate class I took pride in making boys cry. I also knew how to think for myself. Unlike most girls who travel in packs I chose to participate in activities based on my desire not according to the general consensus of the alpha female. I was a cheerleader but practiced by myself, developed all my tryout routines alone, and went out to celebrate with my parents instead of Sally blah, blah blah's house. I wanted the same for my daughter.

Halfway through the preschool year I was helping in class when the animal song came on. This spurred a frenzy ranging from animal movement to free dance. Every child seemed to be enraptured in their own world except a small group of girls that caught my eye. There were three of them moving away from the crowd. The middle was in charge and the two flanking her were focused on mimicking every move she made. If she stood, they stood. If she danced, they danced the exact motion. Their eyes never left her and she stared straight ahead reveling in the power she had over these little minions.  I glanced over to see what my kid was doing and to my relief she was blissfully unaware of any other human in the room let alone the three robots to my side. The music had taken hold and she was deeply enthralled. A few weeks later at Parent Teacher Conference I revisited the subject with her teacher. I began by expressing my desire for my daughter to be independent minded and un-swayed by the crowd. I rehearsed the event with the dancing and wanted to know if Keana ever participated in that kind of mindless following. My fears were allayed as the teacher stated, "Oh no. Keana is very popular but she marches to the beat of her own drum. She isn't easily influenced."

Now she is twelve. She has spent the last few years developing her own kind of beautiful and is definitely not easily swayed, but she isn't the same little mite skipping through my house with carefree wonder either. She frets over getting a phone and how many people follow her on Instagram. She can't understand why girls are so fickle and instead of blowing it off she stews about it. She gets a bit emotional and tells me I am rude sometimes when I bluntly answer her questions or joke around. I feel a bit of panic when these events occur but I remind myself that this too is a bridge that each girl must cross before settling in her own skin. As I reflect back I remember the emotion and insecurity I felt as hormones replaced reason and breasts sprouted. I remember mourning the loss of my freedom with my first cycle and wondering who I was. I still liked to make the boys cry but I also wanted them to like me just a little. I didn't get girls and still don't but thankfully I have devised safety precautions to deal with said demons. Looking at my little creation there is little doubt that she will emerge just as strong and equal to the task but still...... I will miss her shiny, free spirit that will no longer bounce into the room. I will miss her bright little eyes unfettered by the cares of the world. She still comes in to cuddle up in the morning but she has changed, and I will miss the last of my children...., being a child.  

Aged

Midway through the temple ceremony I hear a blow horn effort at whispering from behind that prompts me to glance back only to witness an elderly woman asking for a glass of water. The matron was desperately trying to process the request and keep the woman to a dull roar. This is an odd request as once in the room there isn't really any noise let alone water breaks. There is the most quiet reverence with exception to instruction. It is clearly understood that the situation is akin to deep meditation and that the matrons are not car hops.

When I enter the temple a transition occurs as I step through the doors. My countenance softens, my stride recedes and my manner becomes less coarse. I own that I am a force of nature and coming to the temple to worship allows me to round that edge. I caught myself immediately irritated at this woman's lack of respect and then I looked back again. She was nearly 90 years of age, stooped and unable to walk without support. I could see her discomfort clearly etched upon a wrinkled brow and her plea to the matron was simply that. She needed water and the matron though perplexed at this unexpected request quickly collected herself and returned with the water. The brother in charge approached with some hard candy to suck on and I quickly realized my mistake.

 Many people this age are resigned to their cozy chair situated in front of the TV. There aches and pains are too much to bare out and they do as little as is required to pass the day. This little stooped woman used all the energy she had to get herself to the temple. The session was mild as usual (there isn't a physical prowess necessary to participate) but before the end she could not even stand when needed. I couldn't help but admire her tenacity, her determination to keep moving forward with the life she had left. I reflected on my own purpose that day and wondered what hers might look like. Was she just praying to get through the next hour? Minute? Was she feeling uplifted or renewed? I wanted so much to ask her though such a conversation could not be held in the temple at a low enough decibel. I had to satisfy myself with the notion that she was there to teach those of us perseverance and endurance. Oh and patience.

Leaving the grounds I felt the softness leave me as I hurried to my car to re-enter the chaotic world. I thought back with shame on my initial reaction and then realized I had witnessed a rare insight. I had viewed the capabilities of man and what is possible with the right outlook. You are either decaying or moving forward. There really isn't an in between and so I thought to myself... will I be the woman in the chair passing the day with my TV or the doer 'til the end?