As my daughter Ava approaches her 11th birthday, it’s evident that her preferences have shifted. The once charming, cotton-candy-pink walls now seem overly bright, and her stuffed toys no longer hold the same allure. She’s ready for a more mature room, one that reflects her evolving identity. We’ve decided to revamp her space together, but this means we need to thoroughly clean out every corner: closets, drawers, and more. With Taylor Swift playing in the background, we dive into the task.
I settle onto her plush carpet and observe as she stands and sorts through a box of doll clothing, sunlight illuminating her movements. At this stage, Ava embodies the essence of a tween—caught between childhood and adolescence. She still believes in Santa Claus yet possesses an awareness of more complex topics. She likes to sleep with a light on but can confidently use the oven. Though she occupies the front seat in the car, she still seeks comfort in nighttime rituals.
Her once round figure has elongated, transforming her into a graceful young lady. Dressed in simple attire—jeans and a turquoise T-shirt—her shiny brown hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, highlighting her striking green eyes that now stand out against her slim face.
Ava easily parts with some items, and I find myself doing the same. We toss out posters from her old scout troop and pages from her princess coloring book. The golden curtain rods are discarded without hesitation. However, I find it challenging to let go of certain keepsakes. I hold up a delicate pink silk dress adorned with tiny beads, a gift from her grandparents when she was just 7 years old. It feels like just yesterday when she was twirling in that mini flapper dress.
“What about this, sweetheart?” I ask.
“It doesn’t fit me anymore, Mommy,” she replies.
“I know,” I respond with a sigh, pressing the fabric to my face momentarily.
She suggests discarding a purple tulle butterfly that used to hang from her ceiling, but I secretly add it to my growing pile of keepsakes. We gather a collection of Rainbow Fairies books for our neighbor, but I can’t bear to part with the Ramona series.
Among the items, I discover a uniquely crafted clay heart box, painstakingly made with her little hands. The bright red paint contrasts sharply with its uneven shape, and the lid doesn’t quite fit.
“Oh, Mommy,” she exclaims, cradling the box in her hands. “I just have to keep this,” she says, lovingly stroking its textured surface.
“I understand,” I reply, sharing her sentiment.
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In summary, as we sort through Ava’s belongings, we confront the bittersweet process of letting go while cherishing the memories attached to her childhood.