My husband was a stay-at-home dad until his daughter turned 18 months old. He'd finished his year as an OB-GYN resident, he'd saved some money, and he chose to stay home with her rather than take a job immediately.
Dad would be so proud to see how we've come together, and grown, since his passing. I imagine him sitting back, with a big smile on his face, marveling at how we've healed and how we've taken his biggest dream -- prizing family above all else -- and made it a reality.
My 3-year-old daughter has recently started asking me if certain characters in books and cartoons are boys or girls. After answering her questions, I ask her: "Why is that important?" I'm asking you the same thing now.
I'm glad there are posts like Jeff Bogle's about how it only gets better when it comes to raising daughters, because I need to be reminded that my girls themselves are just fine. I worry a lot, though. About my girls.
Our girls have choices; the world is their oyster. Let's not teach them to hate other women for their choices. If we do, they'll learn to hate themselves when/if they find themselves in a situation where their bodies are, voluntarily or otherwise, being objectified
Your kindness, generosity, patience, willingness to love and to forgive, your powerful brain, uproarious sense of humor, sharp and quick wit, and your overall awesomeness is an example I myself try to live up to every day.
It is Thanksgiving Day, November 23, 1995. I'm taking a break from the cooking to go outside and sit on the front stoop. It's a glorious day: Warm, late afternoon sun basks the house in light. My youngest daughter Lily is two and a half.
I can't be present for every decision she'll make, now or later, to offer advice for her to follow or ignore; she needs to develop her ability take stock of whatever situation and moment she's in and then make good choices.