Transitioning

This evening, while I was cleaning the fishbowl, Xavier came running into the bathroom in a panic.

"Mom! Mom!" he cried. "Gwen got an owie, and it is bleeding!"

Picturing a grim scene of Gwen lying prostrate with pain on the floor (with a trivial injury, admittedly -- the kids tend to overreact), I headed into her bedroom. She wasn't there.

I listened -- nothing. No wails of pain or sobs or anything.

"Gwen?" I asked.

"It was really bleeding!" Xavier chimed in.

"What?" Gwen answered in a normal voice from downstairs.

"Where are you?" I asked, as I started down the stairs.

"Putting a band-aid on," Gwen said, matter-of-factedly, like it was no big deal.

"Did you clean it first?"

"Yeah."

She came out of the bathroom and showed me her spiffy Spiderman band-aid. "It was a paper cut."

I looked down at her with a mingling array of emotions. She is growing up, can take care of minor injuries herself, doesn't cry at the drop of a hat anymore. She stood there, looking up at me, expectantly.

"Um, do you want a kiss to make it better?" I asked.

She held up her hand. "Yes, please."

Oh, good. I'm not completely out-moded.

(Although Gwen now tells me that one of her classmates is teaching her not to cry so much -- probably a good thing.)