By Aimee C. Trafton 
My daughter and I went swimming today. A hobby that has always bonded the two of us, our shared love of water has been a constant since she was a toddler. But not so much lately.
My daughter just started middle school, and although she seems to like it, she comes home every day completely worn out. All she wants to do after hours is watch videos on her phone and play on her backyard trampoline. Swimming with me? Not so much.
And it’s not just swimming. Lately, our mother/daughter shopping trips and Dairy Queen visits have turned into solo runs. She is too tired, she says. “Can you go by yourself, Mom?” I always have to stifle a giggle, because how on earth can an 11-year-old be so tired? Wait until you’re my age, I say to myself silently. Then you will understand what real fatigue is.
Sometimes she asks my husband or me to leave the room because she wants some “alone time.” Other times, she says she only wants Daddy to watch her on the trampoline, not me.
But then she will surprise me by asking for a mother/daughter “sleepover,” which baffles me because she was never the kid who asked to sleep in our bed. Or she will get a bit jealous if I make plans with a friend that don’t include her.
Alas, the pre-teen years have begun. This wondrous game of push/pull she plays with us now. Tiptoeing around her, never quite knowing if she needs us close by, or wants more space. It is new and puzzling, and her wants and needs seem to change daily. I am constantly on standby, never quite knowing if I will be needed or not at any given moment.
So I sit. And wait. And watch for signs. And I tell myself not to take any of it personally, because it is not about me. It is NEVER about me. It is about patiently guiding my daughter through this confusing time in her life, but also stepping aside when she needs me to.
I miss the little girl who always wanted to hold my hand crossing the street. But I am happy that she is confident enough now to cross that street on her own.
But I still can’t stop myself from reminding her to look both ways before crossing. I am still her mother after all. It is what we do.
Originally published on the author’s blog
by Brea Schmidt 
