You got hit in the chest during gym last year. It made a knot. It went away. When you noticed it again, you were really upset because nothing had happened to cause it. Then we noticed it was on both sides. You cried in my lap for the longest time about how you weren't ready. Neither am I, sweet girl.
A couple of weeks ago, you ditched your booster in my car. You were tired of hitting your head on the roof of the car. The belt fits you with nothing under you.
You start middle school tomorrow (well, later today). I'm not ready. You haven't wanted to talk about it. You don't want to grow up. I don't want you to, either.
At the same time, I marvel at the person you are. You are witty, confident (with just the right amount of self-deprecating humor to balance it out). You are kind. You are loving. You still love to cuddle. You love Minecraft, and green, and Tinkerbell.
You are growing, and aren't. You're 'tween. And all of the reasons we call it that become clearer to me as we stay in this middling period.
So many things and the thing I want you to remember most, always, is that I love you.
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