Of Earrings and Aging

When my eleven-year-old daughter left the house yesterday to go to the mall she was still a little girl, but she came back a teenager. The lobes of her ears were pierced by ruby earrings. This is a new parenting landmark for me. I don’t think I like it.

I liked it when she and her brothers and sister each learned to walk on their own; it meant my arms could start functioning normally again. I loved it when they all moved past the diaper stage; it meant my nose could start breathing again. But what am I to think about two holes in the fleshy lobes of her ears, designed for shiny objects whose sole purpose is to attract boys? I guess I should be happy that she’s the first child in the family to get pierced ears–rather than one of her two older brothers–but it made me feel older than I expected.

And to make things worse, I tipped the news about Santa, thinking we had already gone over it before. The needles that pierced her ears did not draw what I drew out of her: tears.

I guess you could say we both aged a bit this weekend.