As a mother, I've never embraced the emotional aspects of a child growing up and away from me. It happens and I do it, because...well, that's God's plan. I do it cheerfully. But it feels like a small death each time a child moves one step farther into their own lives.
Andrea went to camp this weekend, and came home just a bit older. I can see it in her eyes and smile. I can feel it in her touch. The independence. The joy of discovering her own wings. The restlessness of teenage rapture.
I recently tried to interest her in delicate make-up to accent her pretty coloring. She rebelled...I was "controlling" her. So I quietly stored the pale lipgloss in her bathroom drawer, perhaps for another time at her discretion.
She came home from camp yesterday with faint traces of eye shadow, blush and lipgloss...the whole works. Seems two of her make-up savvy girlfriends suggested a "makeover" for her. They spent camp time redoing her hair (something I've attempted, to no avail, for five years!) and giving her a whole new, sophisticated look.
And she adored it.
Seems when mom suggests something, it's controlling. When your girlfriends suggest the very same thing, it's cool.
I miss my little girl. She's my youngest. But she looked happily beautiful in her new make-up.
I have faith in God's plan for her growth. Reluctant faith.
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