The Sharp Teeth of Time

I underwent a profound shift in my perception of myself recently: I am now the parent of a child old enough to need orthodontic treatment.

Here's my big girl and her pretty smile, a bit strained from the new stresses of her expander but still game.

I feel like my life is one broad continuum, over which I can look back and see my current self in each situation. But her glasses and her braces are startling external reminders that time is slipping away. Everything is changing and moving. She isn't growing away from me, but her mind is expanding and broadening, like the universe, and I'm catching more glimpses of a rich interior life and a new adolescent sensitivity. At the same time, she still has a child-like trust in me. This is such a time of wonder: when understanding is still unjaded; when parents are still propellers, not anchors; when she still sees the world through my eyes as much as through hers. I want to always maintain this sweet and easy relationship we have now.

And I want her to keep track of the key for turning the expander, which we only got three days ago, for Pete's sake, and how can it already be lost?