Getting her to brush her long hair is a battle I always lose. There is that knot in the back of her head that she can’t seem to reach, or maybe it’s that she doesn’t care much. She can go for days with dirt under her fingernails. But determining eye color, that’s different. She’ll stare wide-eyed at herself, inches from the bathroom mirror looking for any hint of green. She emerges, happy to announce to us she has hazel eyes, not brown like the rest of us.

Her favorite yellow and pink Crocs are mud stained. One of her front teeth is crooked – like a mini-marshmellow askew. When embarrassed or shy from certain attentions, she hides her grin behind closed fists, an impulse I’m sure has nothing to do with her teeth. She embarrasses easily, yet will willingly sing strong on Friday at the VBS closing program. She wants to be in a stage play.

I gave her the gray owl Webkinz today for her birthday. She told me she wanted this particular Webkinz to be a surprise, so I picked the owl. She named it Who.  All 14 of her other Webkinz are tucked away in her room in a secret place. She plays with them, and when finished, puts them back immediately. No messy room for her. Each stuffed friend she calls by name, reciting each animals’ birthday, best friend and hobby when asked.

She loves stamps, rocks, purses and tote bags, TY Beanie Babies, National Geographic for Kids, and decorative pillows for her bed. Never have I asked her to compose any lengthy writing assignment, yet she produces story after story at the computer. Each composition one immense  chunk of writing with no paragraph breaks.

I stand on the other side of the room careful not to get too close. I know she doesn’t want me to read it. So I won’t. I suggest paragraphs. She ignores me and keeps writing.

When not at the computer, she disappears for hours, either into her bedroom or outside. I watch her from the window as she talks to herself, walking in a wide circle by the swing set. She’s still writing, telling herself the story. Anyone approaching – especially me -  she stops mid-thought until she’s assured of her privacy again.

She has no idea how much we are alike.

She’s my firstborn and the natural leader to her three younger siblings. Her brothers beg her to come out of her room to play, they don’t understand her need for solitude. When she does join them, I can hear her dictating their imaginary play, often telling a brother what the stuffed animal or Lego creature should say. She is the queen bee in the little hive of their busy activity.

“You are my sweet girl,” she sings to her only sister. I wonder what their relationship would be like if public school kept them from each other most days. She is eleven. Lucy is only four. That’s light years apart in every way, yet they share a bedroom easily, often cuddling in bed together when I go in for a final goodnight.

Today she is eleven. She’s at the twilight of her childhood. The final act of being a child, a place of wonder and imagination and innocence. She claims she never wants to grow up. I remember saying the same thing. Her body is already denying her that wish; soon she will be more young lady than preteen. The gangly limbs and clear skin will not, can not, last forever.

I want her to grow up. I want her to stay young forever. She longs to be her own person, to fly away from my constant presence in her life. She doesn’t want me hovering nearby when baking brownies or cake in the kitchen. Then in the next moment wants to come home early from a sleep-over at Grandma’s because she misses home.

She has only one year left to be in Children’s Church.

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