see ya

"You know, if you walk down that street for a block or two, you'll be at the library."

We're on a shady bench at the frozen custard place, middle of the afternoon. She's made it through lunch and now a sundae and probably all the eavesdropping on my conversation she can stand.

"You could go, if you want."

She is newly eleven, and she is intrigued. Anywhere worth getting is too far from our unwalkable lake drive, so she has missed out on much roaming around the town.

So she goes to the edge of the parking lot, peers down the alley, and leaves.

I turn to my friend and cheer.

I am not such a fan of all the changes time and hormones have wrought. Frankly, I liked it better when she believed everything I said, but apparently one of the entrance requirements for middle school is to place all credibility in print and Google and remove all from one's mother. I find myself, suddenly, entirely too often, saying things like, "But I have more life experience than you," or, "I just told you that,"after she confirms something with her own eyes. Which I should want her to trust, I know. But for eleven years I was the fount of all knowledge. It's going to take me some time to adjust.

So thank goodness for space, though that's not why I was happy to be left behind with my dripping chocolate cone. Later, after her tiny, cellphone-tethered adventure, she told me it had been exciting to go out on her own. She was glad to be ready to go, and I was glad to be ready to let her.