I have an 8 year old. 8! It’s hard to believe it’s been 8 whole years since my infamous labour day experience (which I am so glad I took the time to write about, as sleep-deprived and rambley as I was at that time).
This weekend was all about celebrating this amazing little grrrl. From a pottery party with school friends, breakfast pancakes with sprinkles, and finally a ringette game with post-game cupcakes, I think she felt well commemorated this weekend.
It’s a new time for her, getting used to the rhythm of living in two separate homes. It’s been an adjustment for us all, but more than anything, I worry about her, and how she’s handling it all. She’s quickly moving into a place where it’s less about ME fixing things for her, and more about HER finding ways to help herself.
And that’s been hard for me to learn to do, as her mama. For so long I was able to swoop in and help make her life easier — but now I know I can’t do that as much, because it won’t help her in the long run. She’s got to learn some coping strategies, and to do that, sometimes she has to hurt. My hope is that she knows I’m never that far behind her, as she’s learning some of these hard lessons.