“Mom, how do I get rid of these wrinkles?” My 17-year-old daughter Amelia tugs at her oversized T-shirt – the one with the red race car on the front – that she wears over her cut-off shorts.

I want to freeze the moment right here and never let her get any older. Better yet, I want to wrap my arms around her and squeeze her back down to kindergarten. Just for a day.

But it’s impossible.

Instead, I play it cool.

“Oh, no problem – throw it in the dryer. I just put some stuff in there that’ll take them out.”

The author's daughter, Amelia.

She reaches arm over arm and shimmies out of the shirt without blinking. She doesn’t think for a moment about being nearly naked in front of anyone. She wears string bikinis like bakers wear aprons.

Amelia loves freedom.

Bending over the hot dryer, I spot a corner of an old snapshot of her and her brother that hides almost out of view under the appliance. I inch it out with my big toe.

Joseph’s staring at the camera, a look of sheer dread and confusion on his face, as if the world could end in a moment. In contrast, Amelia is popping into the picture behind him, bright brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and wide, jazz fingers spread apart at each knuckle.

I stifle a chuckle as I remember this day over a decade ago.

The author's children around the time they visited Las Vegas.

Five-year-old Amelia sauntered through a Las Vegas hotel lobby. Before her father’s and my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, she slipped away, inching her way to the edge of a narrow dance floor between the check-in counter and a bar that was, on that day, a stage topped with an exotic dancer.

Her chubby pointer finger suspended in the air. With a faraway look in her glassy-chestnut eyes, she inhaled the lovely stripper’s sparkly red leotard, transfixed by the woman’s moves on the pole. I could see Amelia’s chest rise and fall as her quiet breath exited and then sucked in again through her tiny, slightly parted, rosebud lips.

“Oh God!” I whispered to no one in particular as my eyes darted over to my clueless husband, who was busy checking us in.

I began to worry. What’s going on in Amelia’s mind? Will this have some kind of damaging effect on her? Is she in danger?

Trying to be casual, I quietly slipped beside her and whispered, “Boo.” She paid me no........

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