Two Braids

“Mommy, can you do two braids today?” My eight-year-old sat down in front of me with the box of hair bands and clips. “I’ll pick out the colors I want.”

I loosened her long hair from yesterday’s braid and carefully brushed the tangles out from the shiny black waves in front of me. I remembered when this beautiful girl had short, wild, baby hair, just long enough to pull into a mini-hair band, and it would stick up in what I affectionately called the “fountainhead” style. 

Being a mother is the greatest transformative experience I have known. Along with other life and spiritual lessons it has taught me, I’m learning the appreciation of what I have now, and the cherishing of memories without wallowing in sadness. I have three daughters, and this one, the oldest, is my initiation into the world of going with the flow of things. 

When she was tiny, of course my husband and I made all the decisions. Dress you up as a strawberry for Halloween? Yes! Jacket with polka dots instead of flowers? Right on! Brown boots because that’s what they had in your size? Got it! And your precious little one doesn’t complain, because they are just so pleased with themselves in any way, shape, or form at that age. 

Starting around 2 or 3, we were introduced to …. opinions. And I was pretty flexible with clothes, so we’d routinely go out with my kid in striped leggings and a flowered dress, layered with her favorite purple shirt. Or the same turquoise pants got worn over and over and over again. And this was her, expressing herself! And it wasn’t so much of a change for me because these were still little kid clothes, covered wth cupcakes and sparkles and dinosaurs. 

The first time I noticed her becoming more mature was when we were clearing out her closet for winter. She had grown a few sizes and we were making a donation box, or putting away warm weather clothes for next season. I pulled out some tutus I had bought for her and her sister, in pink and green, their favorite colors at the time. She took one look at it and put it into the donation box.

“Really? You’re sure about not wanting that? I know sometimes you like to layer them with leggings.” I didn’t want to step on the lovely idea that she was giving away something she didn’t need or want, but I didn’t want to suddenly need the tutu tomorrow morning.

“No, I’m good. It’s just too poofy.” She went back to clearing out the sock drawer. 

A tutu was too poofy for her? Wow. This was new, but I shrugged to myself and carried on. A few weeks later it was even more interesting, when we did shoes. 

“I like boots. My friends have some, can I have boots too?”

“Well, you’ve got your snow boots, so what exactly did you have in mind? Did you like something like these?” I showed her my phone where I had pulled up pictures of boots on other 7 year olds I had seen — soft, in pink or purple, with a fuzzy lining. Some of them had pom-poms hanging off them. 

“Um, no. I want boots like yours, except not brown, I’d prefer black. They look so cool!” 

So for her birthday my seven year old got a pair of black riding boots with a buckle and no embellishments, and I watched as my little girl started moving her style into things that were more “grown-uppy.” My mind suddenly raced forward into things like makeup (which she already wanted to poke around in), high heels (they all stomped around the house in mine), and how eager they all were to explore the cool stuff in mom’s closet. When did this happen? I wanted to preserve the innocence of dress-up, of wearing and expressing themselves in the simple ways that made them happy without wanting to look like everyone else, and my heart was proud of her maturing but yet missed that toddler with the fountainhead. I know she is growing up, and I am so, so happy for her and proud of who she is. But as a parent, the struggle is real.

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I finished braiding her hair and kissed the back of her head. One day she will declare that two braids are too “little kid” and prefers to wear her hair down, or style it like the trendy styles, or insist only she can do it herself. But at least today is not that day.

“Thanks, Ma, it’s great!” And she checked herself out in the mirror and bounced out of the room to go play with her sisters. 

That night when I kissed them all goodnight, I added a sentence in my head after we prayed. Don’t grow up too fast, baby girl.