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Parents who don't want their children to grow up


I remember perfectly when I started to grow up and the first signs of an incipient preadolescence appeared. They were complicated moments in which your body began to change without your permission, and the mischievous looks from grandmothers and aunts at family gatherings made you feel like an alien they had never seen before.

But, more difficult than for me, it was for my father. He watched as his tender and sweet little girl with golden curls became a girl with breasts at the level of her tonsils and with vindictive answers worthy of Stalin himself.

My father watched in horror as everything in me grew and was not willing to accept it. And there is parents who don't want their children to grow up.

> It is true that this is a general feeling in every parent. The vision of those babies with only two teeth, the memory of the hugs and innocent games of the children where there were bites and kisses all over the body, farts in the gut and stories at the end of the day, are the best memories that we will probably have of our children. Time cannot be stopped but runs through us, whether we like it or not, dragging our tender children and turning them into rebel teenagers without our permission, without realizing it and without preparing for such a tremendous trauma.

Where has my girl stayed? my father said to himself as I put on the most irreverent pants I could find in my closet. And, at the same time that I insisted on finding how to despair and scandalize my parents with redder hair, shorter or with a new "friend", if it was not to his liking, my father insisted on buying me small girl clothes but with size XXL. At the age of 15, he gave me a blue wool sweater with little sheep for my birthday, when I drove my mother crazy looking for a black leather jacket that would turn me into a rebel without a cause looking like a Route 66 biker.

My father was exasperated to hear me talking on the phone with my friends about boys, and almost gave him a stroke when he saw the kind of comics and books he read, far from the princess stories he read to me.

I didn't understand then why my father didn't want to realize that I was growing up. Why didn't I understand that I was no longer the same person, that I was almost an adult, and yet my mother did.

Over time, and after being a mother, I begin to experience the fear of seeing my daughters grow older, those memories and the problem that my father had come out clearly, but not only with me, but with himself. He did not want to lose his daughter, he was not prepared to undergo that change. He was unable to assume that he was already capable of rebut their reasons with foundations and that, as much as he was angry with me, that I became an adult was not my fault. He was just as puzzled as I was.

Now I see myself reflected in him, indeed I do not want to assume that my girls they grow up very fast wanting to protect them by doing what they should do, exempting them from their responsibilities, choosing their friends as if they did not have the criteria to do it themselves. I choose everything in their life: their clothes, with whom they will sleep and with whom they will not, what they will eat, what they should say and what not ... and I do not do it out of obligation, I do it for pleasure, because of that mother instinct that It leads to being on top of our children even if they don't need it.

I do not want to realize that the moments are beginning to arrive when sometimes I hinder them more than I help them. With my behavior I impose my wishes to always have them under my wings, and I do not let them develop their full potential. Without a doubt, adolescence for children is learning for them, but also for us, that we must learn to relax and let them fly, with control, but begin to detach from the nest that has cost us so much time and effort to build.

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