Advice for My Daughter

Category: Love

  • The Most Beautiful

    The Most Beautiful

    Three years ago I wrote a blog post called The Girl in the Rearview Mirror. I wrote it because I was watching my 7 year old daughter’s image change daily as I looked at her in the rearview mirror.

    Three years have passed since that time and I’m still watching her reflection change. The one thought I have every time I see her face is, “she is absolutely the most beautiful girl in the world to me.”

    My mother-in-law passed away last year and I recall that every time we would visit her, she would look at my husband (her son) and just say, “let me look at you.”

    I get it now.

    There is nothing more beautiful in the world to a mother than the faces of her children.

    Nothing.

    At this moment in time, I am lucky enough that I get to see her face in the rearview mirror every day. I get to watch her do her homework. I get to see her laugh with her friends in the backyard.

    But these days won’t last forever.

    One day, that beautiful face won’t be in my life every day.

    I’ll miss her smiles, her late night questions, her messy room, and her hair bands on the coffee table.

    I’ll miss our spontaneous trips to the ice cream shop, holding hands in the parking lot, and footprints on the back of my seat in the car.

    I’ll miss hearing her voice every day and laying on the couch on a lazy Saturday reading books and watching TV.

    But most of all, I’ll miss her face.

    Because it truly is the most beautiful.

    Photo by Ana Francisconi on Unsplash

  • I Will Always Be Your Safe Place

    I Will Always Be Your Safe Place

    I know a secret.

    It was told to me last night in the dark cavernous circle of trust that happens just before bedtime slips into dreamland.

    My daughter had been keeping a secret for months and she was finally ready to tell me.

    I offered no advice. I responded with no judgement.

    I just listened.

    What I witnessed, was a visible sense of relief wash over my daughter.

    A weight had lifted.

    She shared her secret and finally had someone she could talk to about it.

    As she opened up to me in the darkness of her bedroom, I said the following words:

    As you go through life you will have secrets. You will share things with your friends that I will never know about. And that’s ok. Just know that when you are scared or in trouble or afraid of what to do next, I will always be your safe place. You can tell me absolutely anything and I will be on your team. I can’t promise that I will always agree with you, but I can promise that I will always try to help you.

    I sometimes feel like the largest part of my job as a mom of a young child has been to build up and reinforce our trust. Over and over and over and over again. As she grows up, mistakes will be made, promises will be broken and words will be said.

    And I will be her safe place. Even when the mistakes hurt me, when the promises broken are to me, and when the regretted words are said to me.

    I will be her safe place.

    Every. Single. Time.

    Friends will do mean things. Her heart will be broken. She will make some bad decisions. She may even make some VERY bad decisions.

    And when she does. I will be here. I will be safe. And we will walk this path together.

     

    Photo by Jeremy McKnight

  • A Letter to My Daughter on Mother’s Day

    A Letter to My Daughter on Mother’s Day

    This Sunday, you will come into my bedroom and wake me up with a card and a gift and a bright and shiny “Happy Mother’s Day!!!”

    And my heart will explode. It does that every year…and almost every day.

    I still can’t believe that my name is actually “mom.”

    For years my eyes would burn and my heart would ache on the second Sunday in May. I would watch my friends enjoy their well-wishes while I would quietly crumble inside.

    But this Sunday, a little voice will jolt me awake. And she will call me mom.

    For that, I am thankful.

    Thank you for sleepless nights and joy filled days.

    For Friday night sleepovers and Saturday morning snuggles.

    For dancing in the driveway and singing in the car.

    For sharing your fears and listening to mine.

    For being strong and weak and afraid and determined.

    For being a good friend and a kind neighbor.

    For being my favorite artist and personal singer.

    For loving me when I screw up over and over and over again.

    For laundry baskets filled with tiny shirts.

    For a driveway covered in chalk.

    For burning feet as we chase the ice cream truck across the hot pavement.

    For presenting me with a dandelion as if it were the rarest of roses.

    Thank you for smiles
    and messes
    and late nights
    and early mornings
    and legos on the floor
    and stuffed animals in my bed
    and crumbs in the car
    and sticky fingers
    and loud music
    and untied shoes
    and knots in your hair
    and messy countertops
    and out of control birthday parties
    and spilled milk
    and rocks in your pockets
    and piles of drawings
    and muddy shoes
    and conversations in the bathroom
    and water balloon fights
    and stacks of books everywhere
    and french fries in the back seat
    and visits with every dog on every block
    and runny noses
    and being late
    and afternoons at the library
    and pillow fights past bedtime
    and love
    and laughter
    and for calling me mom.

    I’m your mom. And today you celebrate me.

    But today, I celebrate you and the name that I now bear only because you exist.

    I’m your mom.

    Thank you for choosing me.

     

     

  • A Love Letter to My Daughter

    A Love Letter to My Daughter

    My Remarkable Girl,

    It’s taken me years to write you this letter. It’s long overdue. Many times I’ve tried to put my feelings into words, and many times I’ve failed.

    In the simplest of terms, I love you, but there is nothing simple about my feelings. I apologize in advance for the flimsiness of my words. As hard as I try, my words always fail me.

    Imagine for a moment a wish that you hold close to your heart. Now imagine wishing for it for years. You wonder if you are being heard. Every coin that gets dropped in a fountain is wrapped in that wish. Every candle that is blown out feels the wind from that wish. Every star…every night…feels the echo of that wish. Every night, every bended knee, has carried that wish in a prayer.

    Now imagine that wish coming true.

    Can you feel it?

    Now take that feeling and multiply by the number of stars in the sky. Then multiply that by the number of blades of grass in central park. Then multiply that by every grain of sand in the Sahara Desert.

    Does your heart ache yet? Because mine does…every day.

    As I look back on your life so far, there are so many moments when I’m certain that I felt my heart leap out of my body:

    • The first time I held you
    • Your first night home when I watched you sleep
    • The first time you were sick
    • The first time you smiled
    • The first time you said mommy

    And those are just the “big” moments. Every mother expects to be in awe when the big firsts happen, but it’s the everyday moments that make my breath catch and I whisper a simple “thank you” because it’s all I have to offer.

    • When you reach for my hand in the parking lot
    • When your legs are tucked up under you as the moon shines across your sleeping eyes
    • When you get upset and write me a note that says “I’m sorry”
    • When you run across the room to greet me with a giant hug
    • When you invite me to have lunch with you at school

    You are my answered prayer…the prayer that I thought was never heard.

    You are my inspiration, my joy, my wonder, my dance partner, my sidekick, my adventurer, my scientist, my teacher, my guru, my alarm clock, my movie buddy, my cheerleader, my artist, my inventor, my comfort, my caffeine, my confidant, my goofball, my coach, and my heart.

    You. Are my child.

    And I love you.

    Love,

    Mom

     

    Like this? Click here to purchase one to hang in your home.

     

  • I Will Always Carry You

    I Will Always Carry You

    You were very tired this morning when I lifted you out of bed and carried you downstairs.

    As the weight of your growing body pressed down on my arms, I knew in my head that I wouldn’t be able to carry you much longer.

    But I knew in my heart that I will carry you forever.

    When you are

    • scared
    • nervous
    • embarrassed
    • tired
    • over it
    • angry

    I will carry you.

    When you

    • fail the test
    • love someone who doesn’t love you back
    • make a really (really) big mistake
    • cry for help
    • blow the interview
    • do the one thing you shouldn’t do
    • take a risk that doesn’t work out
    • have your heart broken by someone who promised they would love you forever

    I will carry you.

    I can’t fix your problems for you. You need to struggle, screw up and fall down. It’s painful, but I promise you, it will make you compassionate, empathetic and very, very strong.

    Try.

    Fail.

    Try again.

    And if you fail again, I will always be here to carry you. No matter how big you get, my heart is strong enough for both of us.

    And I will carry you.

     

    Image: Lon Martin

  • The Hurt That Every Mother Knows

    The Hurt That Every Mother Knows

    I was heading to bed the other night and went into your room first to kiss you goodnight, like I always do. And you were sound asleep…and absolutely perfect.

    I watched you for a while. I smiled. I remembered. I wished. I prayed.

    And I turned to walk out.

    Then I came back and climbed in next to you. I looked at your eyes gracefully moving beneath closed eyelids and imagined where your dreams were taking you. I imagined where life may take you.

    I looked at your little hands…your face, untouched by the stresses of life…your legs splayed out in exhaustion from a day full of playing.

    And it hurt.

    Every mother knows the hurt I’m talking about. It’s not joy. It’s not sadness. If I had to guess where its roots lie, I would have to say that it is gratitude magnified to the point where it burns.

    Your heart grows too big…and it hurts.

    I lied next to you for quite a while thinking about how proud I am of you and how kind you are. I think of the hundreds of nights I sat in my own bed silently wishing for you and the magical day when my wish was granted.

    My wish was granted, and her favorite color is blue. She likes to sing. She fills my purse with rocks and crayons. She hugs me better than anyone in the world.

    My wish has a name. My wish has a body. My wish calls me mommy.

    My wish is lying right here dreaming her own dreams.

    And, yes, it hurts to look in the eyes of an answered prayer.

    Thank you is so very small, but I say it anyway, because I don’t know what else to say. (tweet this)

    What else do you say when prayers become people and wishes become wonder?

    [thank you]

     

    Image by Susana Fernandez

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