You have experienced it. Or you will. It takes many forms but it happens fast: Our youngest is growing up.
Recently, she and a group of friends made plans to attend the seventh grade dance. Yikes! Before being whisked off to the school gym for the evening, a half dozen or so young ladies gathered in our living room for the obligatory photo session. Digital technology, of course, has eliminated all the needless waiting: There in the photo is our baby, elegant in her dazzling dress, specially coiffed hair and the … wait … what is THAT?! On her wrist?! With a face rivaling Big Ben in circumference and enough neon orange to open a small traffic cone factory, it’s … it’s … her eventing watch!!
You’ve just got to love it. No dainty wrist accessory for this one. She truly was raised in a barn, after all, dragged along in the car seat to all of her older sister’s earliest riding lessons. There is no question that she is comfortable in her own skin-tight riding breeches. If I’m granted the necessary life and breath, I will stand next to her one day – arm-in-arm we will survey the assembled crowd before beginning the long walk down the aisle toward her groom – and I won’t be at all surprised to look down to see a pair of riding chaps peeking out beneath her flowing white dress. It happens fast.
Have an optimum time at the dance, my young beauty.