Standing in front of the bathroom mirror with my daughter, going through our morning routine, I take a minute and watch her. She is literally bubbling with life, bouncing up and down, ever so slightly, on her perfect little toes. I admire the definition of her calves as she reaches over the sink. She’s petite, but sturdy and strong. She hums lightly as she squeezes the toothpaste onto her Hello Kitty toothbrush, pausing before she does so to give the toothbrush a hug saying “I love you my toothbrush!” I watch in awe as she greets herself in the mirror, her wide smile rimmed with white foam. She rinses once, twice, then wipes her face with a towel. With a shake of her shiny brown hair, she admires her freshly scrubbed teeth and says to herself, “I look so pretty!” before skipping off to play. She is four and all is right with the world.
It amazes me that this graceful and wonderful beauty is my child. Since she was born, she has displayed an unusually sunny disposition. From her crib to the big bed she now shares with her brother, she wakes up happy more often than not. She likes to play a rousing round of “emotions charades” in which we’ll call out an emotion and she’ll act it out. When asked to do “sad”, she stops mid-grimace and says, “No. I don’t like to be sad.”
She takes great delight in the littlest things. “Grapes! Oh, Mama, you bought grapes for me at the store! Thank youThankyouThankyou! Oh, Mama, I love you so much.” Her little arms wrap themselves around me in a hug of pure gratitude. I don’t have the heart to tell her they were on sale.
My daughter possesses a self-confidence that stems from more than being a beautiful little girl. Although accustomed to hearing from family and strangers alike, “What a pretty little girl you are!” she replies simply, “I know”. Nothing in her answer suggests vanity, but is the simple acknowledgment of something she knows to be true.
As I watch her scamper off, I desperately hope that she can hold on to her innate confidence and optimism for as long as possible. I worry that my own insecurity and lack of self-confidence will render me unable to be much help when she reaches an age of doubt. Growing up, I was an awkward Chubette (the not so sensitive label for plus size kids’ clothes in the 60’s) towering in the back row of countless composite class pictures, my unruly mass of dark curls corralled by a too-tight plastic headband. What could I possibly offer to a natural beauty who possesses more self-assurance at four than I ever have at the age of 46?
I admit that I wasn’t too sure about having a daughter. In addition to all that girls require—clothes, shoes, accessories, make-up, hair products, a wedding—the course of mother and daughter relationships does not always run smooth. Wary from my own less than Hallmark card relationship with my mother, I worried that the precious pink bundle I nurtured through countless sleepless nights would someday go to great lengths to avoid my phone calls.
Right now, she has a big crush on her mom. She’ll appear out of nowhere and ask to be cuddled, or worm her way next to me on the couch because she wants to be near me. She thinks I’m pretty and tells me I have no need to go on “What Not To Wear” because unlike those ladies, I pick nice clothes. She gets sad when she thinks of becoming a teenager and doesn’t want me to become “an old lady grandma”. But, in her optimistic way, she says that when she does grow up, she will take care of me and brush my hair and take me to the mall. When she gets to be a big girl, she says, she’ll be a Mama, and have babies and cook dinner and bake cakes and work at home on the computer, “Just like you do, Mama.”
Funny thing is, I’m hoping that when I grow up, I will be just like her.
|
