When my daughter was five, if she hadn't seen me for a few hours, she would come running up to greet me and throw herself into my arms.
These days if I try to hug her, she holds her elbows out to prevent such from occurring.
When my daughter was seven, if I went to her room, she would eagerly show me whatever it was that was occupying her attention at the moment.
These days, if she hears my footsteps approaching her room, she puts her foot behind the door so it is only open one inch, peers out from behind with one eye, and guardedly asks, "What do you want Dad?"
When my daughter was young, she would ask me to play games with her and watch her do various athletic feats.
These days, if I ask her directions to her high school cross country meet, she laughingly gives me the wrong directions. When it turns out that some of the other parents went, and I ask why I couldn't, she just shrugs as if this isn't of the least concern to her.
I understand that this evolution is inevitable, and universal. And I'm glad my daughter is normal.
But the process is, at best, bittersweet.