In her bedroom there are sea monkeys, a collection of earrings for newly pierced lobes, Harry Potter collectibles (not toys) and devices with varying levels of smartness. Books spill from shelves, notes from friends are worn soft under thumb and, among it all, a dishevelled pink unicorn sits, cherished disproportionately to all other things.

The laundry bag is full of holey leggings, crop tops and socks which have been worn too many times between washes. Deodorant is used for the novelty of it alone. Hairbands await the daily twist of a messy, indifferent ponytail. My carefully honed Dutch-braiding skills are no longer welcome here.

There’s a Girls’ Guide to Growing Up and a My First Period starter kit which have been thoroughly examined, questioned and shelved for now. We are at the cusp of extraordinary things… or within eyesight at least.

Eyes are rolled at me on a regular, but not quite hourly, basis. When I proffered a birthday badge I was told, rather scathingly, that such things are not worn to school in Year Six. But I was still addressed as Mummy.

Hugs happen at bedtime, mostly, and occasionally at the school gates or when feeling under the weather. 

The joys are wild and tumultuous in their knife edge unexpectedness. The lows rip my core.

We watched Inside Out 2 and I cried more than I should have.

Friends are becoming an all-encompassing universe on which I peer in, occasionally invited, increasingly out of politeness. They love each other with a ferocity which is both beautiful and a little scary to behold. What if a heart is broken? What if we are the ones to break it?

The sand before us looms with the innocent glisten of childhood waters, waiting for the footprints to break the surface. The stakes are terrifying this side of double-digits. What if we choose the wrong secondary school? What if we haven’t done enough to help her raise a small, trembling hand under the crushing press of being the shy girl? What if we say the wrong thing about a biscuit and trigger a lifetime of struggles with body-image? What if we assume too much, or too little about the unbroken ground of sexuality, identity, everything? They aren’t our feet; it isn’t our hand. We are sailing blind.

Where has all the humour gone from this post? What became of my drafted quips about holes in leggings and first bras and you stick what up your where, Mummy, and all the banal lols and etceteras… This all feels so sad, but there is so much joy here too – so much more we can share now, so much mutual laughter and fun.

And even though her wardrobe is increasingly black and there is metal through her ears and she no longer says ‘poo-berty’ or pronounces ‘usually’ with an inexplicable ‘b’ and yes, she knows the truth about Santa and the Tooth Fairy… she is still so very innocent. So very much a little girl. And most days this precipice by which we stand still feels wide and sure beneath our feet. We can see the edge, it’s right there, but it’s not quite here. Not yet.

So we wait. We return the hugs and “love you!”s with care but not yet fear that their number is finite. We feed the sea monkeys when she forgets and try to help with increasingly complicated homework. And we keep a wary eye on the horizon of unblemished sand, watching for those first steps like we did those drunken baby staggers all those years ago. And wonder, bemusedly, when those feet became so very large.