I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

In her first year of high school, Anastasia joined the chairleading team at Knoxville Catholic.

I flew in for the weekend to cheer for her, cheering on her school's football team.

When I walked into the stadium, I looked for her on the sidelines.

Diddy pointed her out among the girls flipping and shaking pom-poms and and well let's just say I wasn't

prepared to see my daughter looking all all grown up. She waved from the field and we

vigorously waved back from the stands. But in my head I was, what happened to my little girl?

Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, makeup, tons of makeup to me, accented her bright smile and soft eyes.

I'm typically good with life transitions.

Change is an expected, even exciting aspect of life, but listening to teenage boys from the rival high school and seats nearby, Whistle at my daughter and other girls,

made me long for days when she would only be seen in sweatpants.

A slew of memories returned to me.

Her screaming,

Look at me daddy, look. Then jump into the deep end, scrambled to the side of a

swimming pool, then get out and do it all over again. Her sitting in the children's section of a bookstore reading

out loud to a small stuffed bear. Or at a friend's stable, writing atop a Welsh pony, the too big equestrian hat falling over her eyes

after a short trot.

I knew the day loomed when she would inevitably express her identity as a young woman.

I have always wanted my children to feel confident and empowered. I wish to lead the charge in affirming their

choices, to protect them from ridicule and shame. Now it was time for me to step up. She was not only attractive and audacious, but also

intelligent and fragile.

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