Growing Up in Reverse

“I wish I was born knowing things,” my oldest daughter told me on her ninth birthday.

Pretty profound for a little girl who has yet to hit the double digits, don’t you think? She also informed me that she was now officially a “pre-teen.” This transformation evidently comes with a whole new set of policies and procedures, all of which I’ve never heard of before, but am convinced is only communicated between Hannah Montana, the brunette from the Wizards of Waverly Place, and all young girls under 4 feet 6 inches tall.

Shocked by my apparent lack of information concerning the matter, she invited me to caucus that morning after breakfast over a non-fat vanilla latte and a hot cocoa with whipped cream. Her demands are as follows:

•Bed time should be increased by one hour. She would consider a fifty-minute bump, but unless we wanted to see her bring in an outside arbiter, she wouldn’t accept a minute less than forty.

•Sleepovers should be increased to one night every weekend, instead of the previous once a month rule. This rule was put in place after her eighth birthday for the sanity of all the other family members. But it seems that its term has expired, and, as she points out quite firmly, was unfairly passed since she wasn’t present to cast a vote or even canvass the neighborhood to garner local support in the first place.

•She should receive a dollar increase in allowance in direct proportion to the amount of years spent living here on earth, plus monetary compensation to offset inflation and any missing assets (i.e. her red scooter and a purple make-up box full of Polly Pockets.) This was originally deemed as non-negotiable. However, she did concede that depending on what other concessions were approved, there may be a chance, on her part at least, for some wiggle room.

•Oh, and of course she requires a cell phone -- preferably one with unlimited texting.

“What in the world would you need unlimited texting for anyway,” I ask her, finally closing my mouth since it had been hanging open for the last ten minutes. My cocoa was now cold and the whipped cream on top a sad, melted mess. “You’re only nine!”

“Well, aside from keeping up with my friends,” she starts to explain, pulling out a pie chart and a box of raisons, “I wouldn’t have to yell at you from the other room to put on a DVD or to ask how many times 102 is divisible by 9 while you are trying to read. We could just text each other. Wouldn’t that be great?”

Man, she’s good. Political savvy and well versed in the nuances of the English language. She kind of makes Bill and Hillary Clinton look like Minnie Pearl and Captain Kangaroo -- in that order.

“And what do you propose to do in exchange for receiving all these brand new privileges?” I ask, thinking how she probably is old enough by now to do a load of laundry or two, maybe take the trash to the curb, and possibly even wash the dog all by herself. My mood was actually starting to lift a bit at the prospects.

“Oh, Mom,” she smiles, coming over to sit in my lap, laying her warm forehead on mine. “The privilege is all yours. You get to watch me grow up, you know.”

Yes, I want to tell her. I know that all too well. But what should I expect next? A kitchen table discussion about the ins and outs of the Electoral College? A crash course on supply side economics? An explanation of why she needs 150 dollars for lunch and a pair of shoes? Last time I checked, she was just learning how to tie her own shoes, and could hardly count her money or actually clear the kitchen table. How was my little pre-teen growing up so fast? How does she know so much? Or, more importantly, when did start to think she knows so much?

Part of growing up is learning about how things work. I get it. I guess I am not ready for her to learn that sometimes things don’t. It reminds me of Corinthians 13: “When I was a child I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” I’m not ready for my daughter to “see through the glass darkly.” I don’t want her to put away those childish things and set off to examine a sometimes tainted and imperfect world. Not at nine. Not yet.

Right now I want to protect her for as long as I can, because I won’t be able to for much longer. That’s why, with all my heart, I wish she was born already knowing things. That when someone bullies her at school it is not any fault of her own, but someone else’s insecurities at work. That no matter how annoying she finds her little sister, one day she’ll be her best friend and she’ll tell her everything. That bad things do happen to good people, and no matter how much you try to make sense out of it, sometimes all you can do is be there as a friend and listen. And that, yes, people go away and leave you, sometimes by choice, and sometimes not. But the little things they leave behind will help define who you are and make you stronger.

But most important of all, I want her to know something I think she knows already:
That as long as I breathe in and out, I will always be here to remind her of all that is good and worth it in the world; and that, to me, she will always embody both.