On Wednesday night my husband and I picked up our 11 year old daughter from track practice.

She excitedly jumped into the back seat, began to buckle herself and without a hint of a greeting blurted out, “Guess what?”

I turned to look at her with her red face and hair falling from her ponytail, “What?” I asked.

“I ran in a 400 meter race against three boys from my class and I came in second. The winner only beat me by two seconds!”

“Wow, honey! That’s great!”

“Yeah. I ran pretty hard and I sprinted really fast at the end…and when it was over I threw up a little bit.”

I don’t know if I have ever been more proud.

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I originally took this video of my son because I wanted to document how his cold was making him sound like he was a seven year old with a pack-a-day habit.

As you’ll see, it morphed into something else. Stuff like this is likely why he has been labeled a class clown. This, and because he spends his lunch period saying, “eyeball” to the amusement of every first grader at his table. Why “eyeball” is hysterical, I will never know. He gets that part of his sense of humor from his dad. I know this because his dad is the one who taught him an entire song about diarrhea.

Also, don’t be intimidated by my purple “Buns of Steel” aerobics step in the background. My buns are steel. Steel like Jello.

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Ever since I was a little girl, I have been scared of cats. As a child, when my next-door neighbor went on vacation she would pay me to open and shut her drapes, empty the litter box and feed her cat. You can probably tell I am old and this was a long time ago because I just used the word drapes.

That cat’s name was Fluffy and he used to meet me at the door standing on his hind legs, hissing and baring his teeth. Fluffy was a jerk.

My husband grew up with a cat and my kids are constantly asking if we can get one. Never mind that we have two dogs and I could create something cat-like out of our dust bunnies. But, no! As far as us getting one, let’s just say that pigs would need to be flying and a fat lady would have to be singing. Also, the devil would be very cold.

But, apparently my son really wants a cat, because when we were walking around the pet store the other day he was lamenting the fact that we don’t have one.

I said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but I just don’t like cats. I will never have one.”

He thought about that as we approached the register then said, “Oh well. Maybe we can get a cat when you die.”

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My daughter turned eleven in December. A couple of weeks ago, in the midst of cleaning her room, she told me that she had a bundle of clothes to hand down to her cousin. Then, as if she was uttering something completely meaningless she said, “Oh, and I don’t really play with my Barbies anymore.” Like a knife to the heart, I tell you.

For as long as I can remember, she has had a large, Barbie storage bag hanging in her room. Nearly the length of the door on which it hangs, it has individual compartments for putting dolls or clothes. It is so full and heavy that I have had to replace the hooks for it twice.

Under her bed there is an entire box full of wedding dresses, night-club outfits, tea-party skirts and mismatched flip-flops. There is a school teacher’s chalkboard, a purple convertible and a red, VW Beetle. Not to mention the full Cinderella carriage, complete with horses. All of it, done for.

My daughter is moving on. We have gone from baby dolls to shopping malls. Now she wants her own e-mail account and a cell phone. She was thrilled when I recently bought her a full-length mirror for her room so she can make sure she looks okay before school.

She brushes her hair without being asked (most of the time) and she’s wearing deodorant. Sometimes we pass right by the kid’s shoe section and head straight for the women’s, because she can fit in those now too.

She is growing up. And, that? Scares me to death.

Getting her through childhood was hard enough. Soon there will be peer pressure and boys and really important decisions with which she’ll be faced. Hard decisions that need to be made in an instant and need to be made correctly the first time, because sometimes there isn’t a second chance.

Don’t get me wrong, I love watching her grow and excel and morph into this amazing person.

But, I would do just about anything to go back in time to see her playing with those Barbies again.

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