To the Nines

Friday, February 4, 2005

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

To the Nines

By J’AMY PACHECO

A few days ago, my daughter asked me at what age a person is considered to be a teenager. I answered, “13,” and a moment later, she responded with this heart-stopper: “Only four more years?” I nearly fell out of my chair.

My “baby” will turn nine on Monday. I just hope I survive the shock long enough to order a cake, and maybe a few balloons to celebrate the big day.

It doesn’t seem possible that the little girl who was born just yesterday—I’m certain it was no longer than that—is so close to becoming a teenager.

My denial, however, is overshadowed by nine years of well-documented details of her growing up.

I started in my current position shortly after becoming pregnant. With a weekly deadline to meet, I spared no personal detail—I wrote here about my pregnancy, my daughter’s premature delivery and her first days at home. Her first tooth, first steps, first words and even her first joke were all detailed in this column.

When she reached school age, content became more plentiful. When she sang alone on stage as Hazel Belle Hanks in her kindergarten Thanksgiving play, “No Turkey for Perky,” I memorialized the event (and my utter disbelief that my shy offspring could sing alone) here.

My keyboard captured nearly every detail of her life. Happy times, like those spent camping, learning new things and winning a goldfish at the county fair were written about here. Sad times, like the death of that first fish, were also column topics.

When she conquered fear—most recently by braving the “Indiana Jones” ride at Disneyland—I recorded the moment here. If she made me laugh, made me angry or scared the bejeebers out of me, it was probably written about here.

Every birthday has also been documented. Her sweet, happy first birthday, the sad fifth birthday she spent on the couch with the flu after throwing up at the bakery; the pioneer-and-Disney-princess combo party theme she chose to celebrate her sixth birthday and last year’s fairy party have all been detailed here.

This year, she plans to have her guests don “toon” ears and big white Mickey Mouse-style hands for a “ToonTown” party. It will be a lot of work, but I’m thrilled she’s still choosing kid-friendly party themes.

I hope that trend continues for a few more years. Like most parents, I’m in no hurry to see my little girl grow up.

Although she looks unbelievably tall stretched out on her Tinker Bell sheets, she still insists we call her “Baby.” To me, she’ll always be Baby. Some days, she looks like the pre-teen she’ll soon be. Other times, she looks like the baby girl I remember.

If you’ve been reading this column for any of the past nine years, you probably know almost as much about her as I do. She’s smart, funny, and in possession of a bizarre sense of humor that often takes me by surprise.

She’s still afraid of many things, from the dark to stray dogs, but is getting braver. This year goes down in the column logs as the year she conquered her fear of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, and followed that up with the Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain. Before long, I suspect she’ll be waving to me on her way to the Tower of Terror or the upside-down roller coasters that her mom just can’t handle.

Yikes.

But as old as she sometimes seems, she is petite enough that I can still pick her up. I still carry her down the stairs every morning, and I still carry her when we’re in a crowd.

While many of her friends have spurned Barbie dolls, my daughter continues to play with the plastic princess. She rarely asks for new ones, though, and if she gets one, will usually put it aside after taking its clothing for her favorite Barbie doll to wear.

She listens to “Lizzie McGuire” and “Kidz Bop” music, but still sleeps with her beloved Teddy bear. She continues to take him on car trips, and still begs me to transport him in my bag when we go anywhere, from a local movie to a far-off theme park.

She’s still my baby, but there’s no denying it—my little girl is rocketing her way to her teenage years. Technically, she’s halfway to adulthood.

Now, that’s what I call a shock. In fact, I’d better order that cake today.

Because I don’t think I’m gonna make it.