scribblechic

At bedtime we curled into easy conversation, side by side, replaying the day behind us and talking expectantly about the day ahead. Between our words I watched your eyes study my face, documenting my lines and questioning stray hairs. I marveled with amusement at your honesty and tried to give you answers that would inform how you gaze at your own reflection.

I told you I lingered in the sun too long when I was younger, smile at each opportunity, sometimes forget to wash my face before bed. I gave you honest answers without apologizing for what some might consider flaws.

I didn’t tell you that I don’t feel beautiful and I am often uncomfortable beneath another’s gaze. Even as you studied the tiny hairs on my face and pink blemishes that have accompanied me from my teenage years into motherhood, I tried not to look away and hide from your inventory. I knew you would filter my flaws with love.

My self-awareness is born of old insecurities whose cost undermine my greater worth. The intricate imperfections I wear with an invisible sensitivity are pieces of my entirety. In a room full of strangers the small lines and stubborn mass of hair, brown eyes with green flecks and imperfect smile are mine alone.

One day you may similarly find pieces of yourself you might change and I hope that in those moments you will remember you are a collection of differences, pieces of a puzzle that create a unique image. More importantly I hope you will know that it is the poetry of your mind and the span of your heart that inform the world of your true beauty.

Love, Mom

Last night the high school auditorium was hushed as rows of parents, siblings, and grandparents waited in the darkness for a familiar face to cross the stage. I knew from rehearsal when my daughter would enter and where she would stand among the young ballerinas, but I didn’t expect the rush of tears that betrayed my own emotions. More than watching the culmination of a year’s worth of Thursday afternoon practices, I was my daughter’s witness to a journey that began years ago.

Toddler arms outstretched to gather wind into her stride and eager twirls between footsteps, her joy and sense of self-expression extended beyond choreographed movement. This melody of movement accompanied us to her first dance lesson over five years ago where unkind words from her instructor introduced shame to joy. The little girl who so often invited dance into her daily movement became self-conscious of self-expression.

This fall my daughter asked to return to dance. She wanted to learn the graceful movements of a ballerina and fly again. The months between then and now have been a balance of hope and doubt, faith and fear. We returned each week to a gentle teacher who guided lessons with kindness and we honored our commitment until the final curtain call.

Moving forward, outside the lights and without the costume, I know that our new experience accompanies the old. My daughter’s footsteps may stray from the pink slippers of our Thursday classes, but her movements are inspired by her strength and informed by lessons in possibility.

This weekend my daughter attended a birthday party. Just as families were dropping off their young guests, uninvited raindrops scattered plans in a new direction. When the party was redirected to an indoor location I found my daughter displaced among strangers. The other girls, familiar from another experience, clamored together into a group of one while my daughter was left standing alone, gift in hand.

To my daughter,

Thank you for being strong enough to stand comfortably by yourself. Without inferring injury you moved towards belonging never loosing sight of your independence.

Rather than race into a cluster of girls eager to huddle together in another mother’s car you patiently waited for our host. At the moment, I wished you company rather than noticing your decision. In hindsight I hope you are always reserved when offered a ride with a stranger.

As the other mother realized you were standing alone she called the girls to befriend you, encouraging someone to step forward and wait alongside you. I was as grateful for this mother’s attentiveness as I was saddened by the girls’ collective hesitance to lend you company. I only saw a little girl left out and allowed my emotions to clutter my perspective.

There were no tears or anger, no eagerness to escape the sidelines. You stood in a moment, comfortable with yourself and patient with others. You held friendship like the gift in your hand and moved independently even as I wanted to shelter you.

Following your lead I stepped into my own discomfort and let go, giving you room to be successful. I welcomed our host’s offer to bring you home and waited anxiously for the party’s end. When our front door opened sometime later, you tumbled through on a gust of words winged with smiles. You found your way.

This day was such a small moment in our lives. Another party in a string of childhood gatherings that blend into an unexceptional pattern of predictable memories. Still, there was a moment in the mundane when you were exceptional and despite my worries wrapped in heartstrings, your strength and faith in others were greater than my assumptions.

I hope you are always prepared to move against the grain to find your own way.

Love, Mom