My daughter celebrated her twelfth birthday this weekend with four of her best friends. Her life and circumstances have varied greatly from my own childhood, and her personality is vastly different than my own, but despite this, there is a sweet familiarity of witnessing this age again. I’m aware that my recollection of that time is probably far different from the reality of it. Childhood generally seems magical compared to the trials and tribulations of being an adult, so it’s not surprising that I look back at my preteen years with mostly fond memories. At twelve, there is still an innocence of being a child but there is also an excitement and eagerness that occurs with being on the brink of adolescence. I knew things were about to change. It was tangible, like the prickly feeling before an electric shock. I wanted to be a teenager in the same way an eight-year-old wants to stay up until midnight. It seems utterly amazing, but the reality of it is far from. 
By twelve, most of my friends had matured physically, I had not. I felt left behind. I desperately wanted breasts. I desperately wanted a bra. I desperately wanted to get my period. I desperately wanted to shave my legs. Hell, I even desperately wanted braces!  I wanted these things, and I was not shy at all when it came to asking my mom pointed questions about them, (probably to her dismay). She gracefully answered my more innocent questions (breast development and menstruation) and not so gracefully ignored my more personal questions (sex and, well, sex).