Watching them Grow

They grow so fast. There seems no time at all between sticky fingers, wet kisses and giggly secrets whispered in my ear to a furtive smear of lip gloss and giggles with friends, glancing up to make sure their secrets are safe. Too little space between Good Night Moon and Twilight. Not enough room between two wheels and four. And the questions, oh the questions. Questions I want to answer because I don't trust the answers to anyone else but questions that strike fear into the heart that just wants to protect her from my own hurt. How much to answer, when and why? How much of me does she need to know? All of me, or only the good parts? Fallibility seems a quality that might make a parent more approachable - but then again - maybe it just provides an excuse. So we hurtle toward adolescence at the speed of iPod's and texting and words posted on facebook, with my mother's voice sounding outside and in. She says "what are you doing? why are you doing it that way? why are you always busy? why don't you do it the way I did?" And I want to scream an answer to her that captures all that I wanted to be different, all that I try to do another way. But if I take time to argue, she'll grow another foot and I will miss it. So I pay attention, and try to be brave, and live my life out loud so she can see how it's done.