My daughter, Emaline, is fourteen years and 5 months old today.  She is a smart, healthy, 9th grader. Honestly, high school has been a breeze as compared with the transition to middle school.  Augmented by the ongoing pandemic and the desperate desire to feel alive and push boundaries, she and her friends made some unwise and unsafe choices during those years. But luckily, they seem to have come out slightly wiser (as crazy as that sounds when referencing 14-year-olds).

As most women (having survived their teen years) can relate to, she weathered some “Mean Girl” periods, leaving her more guarded and protective of her fragile heart.  A hopeless romantic (like her mom) she often chooses to live vicariously through the characters in the teen dramas that consume her phone, and her mind: One Tree Hill, The Vampire Diaries, Teen Wolf, Pretty Little Liars… these are the emotional outlets she connects with deeply, relaying detailed updates to me about the key moments or relationships of her TV friends.

And while I often worry if she’s too invested in the fictional dramas of these TV characters, I can easily remember back to my own teen years and the personal investment I had in the relationships of Kelly, Dylan and Brandon from the original 90210 TV series.  In fact, my college roommates actually started referring to these characters as my “TV friends” and they likely considered finding me a support group after the series finale, knowing I would be experiencing a significant loss.

But outside of her deep connection to her TV friends, Emaline is mature and responsible in so many ways.  She carries a lot of the family responsibilities that pile up when you have 4 kids and 2 working parents: babysitting regularly, or helping me clean up after meals.  She’s been doing her own laundry since age 12 and frequently acts as my sous chef when I’m running late from work, and we need to get dinner on the table before another soccer practice.  She’s had an iPhone, debit card and a transit pass for over 2 years.  Recently, when she lost her debit card during her commute home from school, she had already called the bank, located her passport, walked up to the local branch, and secured a replacement between the hours of 4-6 pm while I was wrapping up meetings from the basement office.

Emaline is resourceful and far wiser about the world than I was at age 14.  She also spends far too much time wearing AirPods and glued to her iPhone screen: scrolling TikTok or binging (and even re-binging) her favourite TV series.  She can be selfish and salty, especially before 10 am, and is quick to find any excuse to avoid “family time” when it involves going in public with her 3 little brothers.  Independent and responsible, it’s easy to forget that she’s only in grade 9 and still in her early teens.

And yet, there are still times when she will make blanket forts or develop obstacle courses with her brothers.  She’ll close out the fading light at dusk playing HORSE in the driveway, and she’ll fiercely defend the stuffed Mickey doll she picked out at Disney, ensuring her brothers don’t absorb him into their sea of stuffies.  She’s that hybrid of being far too advanced in her knowledge of the world, and all its mystery and pain, while also holding onto those last few strands of childhood fantasy.  But the fantasy is slipping away far too quickly.

Just the other day, I was attempting to clean out the freezer to make space for new groceries, and pulled out a mostly empty container of raspberry gelato.  Freezer burned, with only 2-3 bites of gelato clinging to the bottom edges (likely left there by Emaline months ago), I decided this could stop consuming freezer space.  Emaline watched me rinse out the container and add it to the recycling.  And then she chimes in:

“Mom, are you throwing away that container?”

It was a fine container: clear plastic, with a black, screw-on lid.  500 ml size.  Not too big and not too small.  That said, we have loads of take-out containers that we use for leftovers.  I couldn’t figure out why she was interested in this particular one.

And then she informs me, “It would be a great container for collecting bugs or frogs.  We can poke some holes in the lid.”

I smile, my heart melting.  “You’re right.  It is a great container for bugs.”  I wash it out and save it.  Not for leftovers, but for holding onto those few last strands of childhood wonder and discovery.  For collecting snails or caterpillars or frogs – as well as dreams and memories and magic.