“I’m just so happy with my new hairbrush,” Rosie said as we drove home from Target last evening.
This is it, I thought. Here is one of those subtle clues that your almost 11-year old is starting to pay attention to her body. It is a nice hairbrush indeed, all $5.49 of it: white and pearly blue, soft plastic pillowy handle, bristles that move in and out of its cushioned orb. I could hear her in the back seat stroking her brunette mane and coveting her new possession. We were listening to Harry Potter 4 (again), the scene where Hermione is cast a spell by Draco Malfoy that gives her beaver teeth. There is no discussion during these rides, so Rosie’s comment about the brush stood out.
I tend to joke that I’ve got jocks for girls when I myself was a creative type, took ballet for eons in a pre-Title 9 era, and have always had zero hand-eye-ball coordination. No skirts, dresses for them – I know not to waste a penny on anything in the pink to purple color range. Just as well. I remind myself that keeping girls in sports during adolescence is a protective factor for self-esteem – it’s the sports arena vs. hanging out at the town pizza parlor or local malls. Keeps girls out of trouble.
Rosie is quite modest, too. She knows she has beautiful hair, but keeps it in a pony tail at all times – as if letting her hair flow across her shoulders would be too much self-exposure. I suppose another sign of maturation might be when she actually leaves her hair down that a crush on some boy has emerged.
I keep these observations quiet and like to note them here for fear of missing the transition while life is fairly calm and the summer days are lolling by. Fifth grade is upon her and I’m sure the year will bring with it some growing pains.
It’s funny that I thank the Harry Potter series… the books on CD (not the movie versions) for the nuanced descriptions of the Hogwarts gang. If it weren’t for Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco and Neville, I’m not sure what sort of heads-up Rosie might have about the middle school years. I laugh out loud at the Jim Dale narration along with Rosie and occasionally it brings to mind my early teens, the first dance, and other better-to-be-forgotten tales of growing up an awkward kid.
(Weren’t we all, really?)
