As I mentioned earlier, yesterday was Matilda’s seventh birthday. Mom is currently roaming the house, singing Nick Cave songs and draping all the mirrors in black. Mom’s little baby has grown and is now becoming independent.

True, seven years old is not exactly emancipation age. She’s not driving, drinking or dating. However, the magical years of wide-eyed innocence are ending. Matilda figured out the truth of the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus in quick succession. Halloween is becoming a contest amongst friends. Worse, her heart is broken on a daily basis.

Our ability to protect is slowly waning. Where we were once able to shield her from unnecessary pain, we can no longer tread. From here until, well . . . death, is a learning experience. One dreadful moment to the next, pain and humiliation.

At least that’s how a parent sees it. Matilda will still have wonderful times, great memories and exciting experiences. Yet, to us, we only see the downhill turns. She has yet to be betrayed by a best friend, not invited to a party, been dumped by a boyfriend . . . it never ends.

Matilda is carving out her own personality. Her own likes and dislikes. Her own style. She’s entering the trying times of acceptance and rejection. And it’s difficult to watch.

She no longer openly cries, but now feels it necessary to fight back the tears. Bite the bullet. We see her friends treating her poorly and have to hang back and remember that she needs to learn how to handle it herself.

For the parent, bedtime is the worst moment. In the dim glow of the bathroom light, we discuss our day. We go over our highs and lows. There is something about that moment, reflecting over the day that makes us want to discuss fears.

This used to be easy. Are ghosts real? Are you going to die? Will there be an earthquake? Now . . . we have real life fears. What if no one likes me? They’re going to laugh at me. Why do my friends treat me that way?

These aren’t situations that can be chased away with a kiss to the forehead. These are fears that will stay with her. And, how she handles them now will teach her how to handle it in the future. And I CAN’T DO ANYTHING. Just support her and talk through it. Give advice. I can no longer answer the questions but, rather, guide her towards a good decision.

It’s hard to believe that the child I met when I started to date her mother is now seven. She was just a two-year-old then. We played Barnyard Bingo (and I always lost . . . and not on purpose). Now we discuss fashion and terrorist threats.

Where have the years gone? How did that stammering little girl, who morphed her “r”s into “w”s turn into this intelligent, articulate girl? Where did that little girl go?

I’d say that I long for her back, that I want her to remain a toddler forever. But that wouldn’t be the truth. To be honest, I’m proud of how she’s growing. True, it’s faster than I expected, but she’ is quite the amazing child. Intelligent, truthful, good-hearted. She’s a reader, an artist. She’s poised and polite, making us the envy of all the other parents.

And yet, part of me wishes I could freeze that moment in time so long ago when she sat on her pink princess bike and donned her Barbie helmet for the first time, tottering down the street, training wheels clattering over the seams in the pavement. She had a doll in her basket and was ringing the bell.

The training wheels are gone. So is the basket and “Princess” license plate. The doll stays inside now and the bell is hidden in a drawer. Next year, a more serious bike will replace the pink princess bike, and old pinkie will sit in storage until the day when Baby Gertrude is ready to ride.

And the training wheels will be dusted off; a new basket will be bought. And we’ll hear those wheels clattering again. Except this time, a nearly eleven-year-old Matilda will be running behind the bike imparting her wisdom and encouragement to her little sister.

And my heart will be breaking. But in a good way, because the neighborhood will be filled with children’s laughter. My children.

My girls.