I thought this would be harder.
I thought that much like the first two, I would sob audibly while dismantling the toddler bed and last vestiges of her babyhood. I thought I would stroke the mattress longingly, recalling the very first time I laid my brand new daughter to sleep in her own home.
Not so much.
Instead, I took her shopping, and despite my control freak issues with bedding matching curtains, matching dresser knobs, matching closet valances, matching pillows - I let her pick out her OWN bedspread.
No big deal you say?
Punk is 14. He chose an orange pillowcase when he was 11, and he had to beg.
Why am I like this with number 3?
I'm not sure, but I have a guess.
As much as I know that she is my baby, that her childhood is racing past me faster than Usain Bolt can run to the fridge - as aware as I am, I am also aware of this:
I will not be her mother as long as I will Punk and Kooka's. Whether she is 20, 40, 60 or 80, she will be on her own much sooner than either of them. She will have to trust her instincts, trust herself, trust that she is OK without her parents before any of her siblings do.
I think that is why with this kid, I don't mourn the passing as much as I celebrate the growth - which is maybe how I should have spent the past 14 years as well. Of course there will still be tears, still be moments of tender, bittersweet emotion as she grows up, but today I am celebrating her independence - and taking bets on whether she'll fall out tonight.