Yesterday, my daughter turned 11. This time last year, we were bubbling with the momentous change of age from a single digit to two digits. Now, with a year of experience in the two digit zone, she is hitting another mile stone- turning eleven.

e-LE-ven. Now I have to say three syllables when talking about my daughter. It was easy to refer to her as “my ten year old,” which flew off the tip of my tongue. Now it’s e-LE-ven. e-LE-ven. Sounds uneven.

Every year of her life has been a monosyllable, with the exception of “seven,” but “SE-ven” is closer to a monosyllable than e-LE-ven. The “ven” in “seven” is almost an afterthought. 

I’ll have to get used to saying “my e-LE-ven year old.” e-LE-ven. I don’t like it. Next year, it’s back to a monosyllable, the last year she’ll have a monosyllable age in her entire life.

Also, it will be the last year her age will fit on the face of a clock.

But I could switch to military time…. 

My mind tries to make sense of the uncontrollable.

“I don’t want to be a teenager,” my daughter has been saying to me the last couple of years.

“You’re not a teenager,” I reply reassuringly, aware of the impending danger. 

When my daughter thinks of teenagers, she thinks of ripped up jeans, piercings and died hair (although she notices this in younger kids too.) Her direct experience with teenagers comes from her friend’s teenage brother, who graduated from high school this year. In previous years, he has worn pink shoes, several earrings, and he does something in his room he doesn’t want anyone else to know. He also has a girlfriend, and my daughter thinks kissing is gross.

My daughter is so conservative I love her for it. I’m grateful for it. I hug her, protect her, and I don’t want to let her go. When I hug her, I feel love from an infinite source that doesn’t diminish, like the energy of the sun (physics aside). It’s the kind of love that brings tears to my eyes. Some people feel it with a partner. I get to feel it toward my daughter.

Maybe if Polina had a sibling, it would be easier to let go. I don’t know what that would feel like. All I know is the intense concentration of love that I feel toward my daughter.

I don’t want to live far from you, I tell her.

“We won’t. We can live next door to each other.”

That separation is already painful. 

The person having pre-teen angst might be me.

I remember carrying my daughter in a baby carrier. Three years, much less e-LE-ven years, seemed like a very long ways away. One day, I saw a dress in a store for a three year old that I really liked. I didn’t buy it because toddler-hood seemed so far away, like some distant star that would take a long time to arrive.

Yet that star came, and then there was another one, and another. 

I want to slow down. Are we in warp-speed?

Polina had so much energy. She didn’t like to sleep. She still doesn’t. I used to lay down with her for a nap, otherwise she would be a handful and not able to control herself. We had afternoon naps together until she was 5.

I remember every mile stone- the day she was born. The day she crawled to the kitchen from the living room. The day she took her first steps (July 17). The day she repeated words after me. The day she showed her intelligence by bringing a book her father and I were talking about when she was barely one year old. The times she was infatuated with dogs and called them “ah ah.” The days she had so much energy, I didn’t know what to do with it all. I thought at some point motherhood would kill me. I wanted my world orderly, and my daughter disrupted it. I was often at a loss.

Then, she started school and began funneling her energy there. She found a friend in our next door neighbor. I signed her up for gymnastics, ballet and online classes, reprieves in my day.

Her age belies presumed maturity. She is still very much a child and will always be… my…child. When I’m 80, she will be…my…child, because my responsibility toward her will always be greater than hers toward me. The only time that will ever change is if I’m no longer able to take care of myself.

“She’s not “big,” I used to tell people who called my four year old “big.” “Big” in relation to what? An infant? Yes, in relation to an infant, she’s big, but in relation to the span of her life, not even close.

e-LE-ven. e-LE-ven.

I have to get used to it, like I’ll have to get used to her one day getting married, or having confidantes other than me, or having friends and keeping secrets. I’m preparing myself mentally for the marriage part, although my daughter is more repelled by it than me.

There’s no cure for my condition, just a fiery path I have to pass through in my journey.

Happy Birthday, Polina. I love you and you will always be… my… child.