When I begin a blog post, the text says “share your story here”. I don’t have “a” story. I don’t have a “story”. I have a daughter. She isn’t a story. She’s more like this beautiful unwritten novel that as a parent we help write without ever knowing. She is part science fiction , part mystery, comedy, drama, and self help manual. She knows more about her than I ever will. That’s a scary thought. I thought I knew already. I thought I would always be one step ahead of her. She has an answer for everything. She has a reason for everything. She has a plan. She has an agenda.
She is beautiful with her crazy spiked little baby teeth and her bright brown eyes and her mischievous giggle when being told “no” and I can’t keep the smile from my face while reprimanding her for whatever social rule she may have broken.
She is this tiny little human that I am attempting to mold into a “socially acceptable” and morally insightful member of society. Why? I don’t know. She is her own person and her innocence is beaming and untouched by the graces of society. Right now she is perfect. And I will always think she is perfect. Flaws and all.
What scares me is that someday many people and situations will make her doubt her self, her appearance, her smile, her thoughts. And that’s such a shame. It’s heartbreaking.
I’m not ok with that. But I don’t have a choice. That’s life. I guess the best i can do is build her confidence up enough to stand tall.
That’s MY story. I don’t know what hers will be. But I’ll bet she does.