My eight year old informed me today, while en route to the movie theatre, she does not need me to hold her hand while walking across the street because, “I’m eight now Mom.”

Just like that, she doesn’t need me.  Not to guide her across the street, not to hold hands while watching a movie. The only time I have permission to touch her hands is to give her a manicure or hold her mirror while she applies a little too much chapstick.

We drove home, hands to ourselves and I took a deep breath wondering what this next stage in her life would bring.

Then something magical happened.

Hanna: Mom, when we get home, do we have time to look through the treasure chest in the basement? The one from when Daddy was a pirate?

Phew—still time.