Rosie goes camping (or "eleven")

Today Rose* finished her schoolwork and went off to play.

Play is a funny thing these days.  Rose is 11 years old and things are changing around here for us.

Some days "off to play" really means just that: games with the set of dolls she's grown up with, or drawing pictures or making lists for pretend voyages or tasks (the kid loves lists, what can I say?).  Some days it means reading novels or writing stories--still play, but with a less whimsical turn that seems to be increasingly replacing the old "throw yourself into it" forms she used to favor.  Even the dolls have become a more solitary activity, my presence is not as sought after the way it used to be.

And very rare these days is the "I am the game" kind of play that used to be a staple of Rose-play.  Know what I mean but that?  The kind of play that involves costumes (pre-formed or cobbled together out of non-costume things) and acting out ideas, stories, themes.  The kind of "lets pretend" play that is a big part of the preschooler's playtime but tapers off as self consciousness grows and the focus shifts outward.

Today was a rare day indeed--11 year old Rose was going camping.  Astute readers will note that it's January.  And astute readers will notice that just yesterday we were shoveling snow with no place to put it.  Rose is no less astute.

Rose pretending to go camping

Today Rose decided to pretend to go camping.  Outfitted in a bandanna and denim shirt, she packed a backpack and canteen, gathered survival tools, flashlights, blankets, maps, and a guidebook.  She threw herself into it in a way we really haven't seen around here in a long time.

It's both a joy and a sorrow for me as a mother to see her change.  I'm proud of her and I adore who she is now.  But I also miss the little person I used to mother and also adored.  I miss the epic Fisher-Price Little People games, the never ending Cinderella pretend (she would "lose" her plastic slipper and then run off sobbing into the garden where the fairy godmother would need to find her and send her to the ball, where she would dance until midnight, lose her plastic slipper and then run off sobbing into the garden where....see how this goes?).  I miss the tiny little cuddly baby who fit in my arms.  And I'm sure that in a couple more years I'll miss the 11 year old who I love now.

"You've got to let them grow up, you know"  "They're only on loan from God"  "Your job is to work yourself out of a job"...yeah, yeah, yeah.  Love the platitudes (ok, that was a lie--hate them, actually).

I do let her grow up, I encourage her and support her and I'm proud of her.

But when she wants to (she wants to, for her not me), it's very sweet for my mommy heart to watch her lose herself in some of the old Rose for a little while again. <3




*Note:  just like I'm not really Daphne, my daughter isn't really Rose, either.  It's a name I'm using to protect her privacy and mine and call her something besides "my dearest darling angel."  Funny, I haven't quite gotten that far with my husband, who thus far seems to have been named "my husband" only.  Then again, I love having him as my husband, so maybe that works.  Of course I love having Rose as my daughter, so that doesn't help much...