Although other moms have warned me that the second half is hard -- perhaps the hardest -- part of having a daughter, I think we're ready to tackle it. Like any good coach, I've got a game plan, and I know what worked in the first half probably won't work in the next.
Daughter, when you feel surrounded by darkness, it's tempting to think you're meant to be dark, too. You might ask, "If others aren't beaming in this way, surely I'm not meant to; and surely I'm not capable of bringing light, right?"
In the end, there is only love of all the memories we were given. We are our mother's daughters. We have traditions, talents and our dreams just like them. We have our individuality, in spite of the occasional dissensions.
I love the fact that I still get to catch glimpses of you as a little girl when you get excited over things. Sometimes I'm jealous of the secret giggles that you share with your friends -- especially when I ask what's so funny and get that look that teenagers are so good at giving
A client told me how she noticed the color and taste of everything in a way she doesn't normally notice, and felt a profound gratitude for life. We've all known these moments. And the beautiful thing is that you don't need a lot of time to find the eternal in a common moment.
Telephone occasionally and bring the call to an end yourself, citing things you need to do. If leaving a voicemail (not more than one or two, max), don't sound breathless with that feigned surplus of activity, just minimally distracted by the fulfillments of your own life.
Losing a mother is like being on a ship that has lost it's ballast and is now at the mercy of the deepest ocean and all it holds within. I bob around without a foundation to bring me back to the same balanced spot each time, a spot I just can't get right.
I have a child who doesn't sit still -- ever. Over the years, I've watched her peers learn to sit long enough to draw pictures. I've watched others learn to stay seated for an entire meal. My 5-year-old girl operates quite differently.
I've learned most mothers are good at what they do, flaws and all. In fact, it's our flaws that make us capable of instilling grace in our children. We have to learn to trust our instincts and trust that even when giving our best fails us, we are not failures.
When a female character is given full license to explore the boundaries of her humanity -- in all directions -- she represents pure possibility for the women on the other side of the screen or the page, consuming the story.
My baby was bald for her first two full years. Desperate to make her look girlier, I tracked down non-slip hair clips for "ultra fine baby hair" and stuck them on her two strands of hair. When I look back at photos, it just looks like she has a piece of felt glued to her bald head. Major fail.
She may not love us as she thinks she should. "Should" is a nasty word -- she will learn that, too, as she learns to navigate the world that has disappointed her so. For now... I will take what I can get. And give all. As always. Because she is the best thing I have ever done.
This woman looks like my mother. She sounds like my mother. She smells like my mother. There is that visceral feeling when I hug her, that I am hugging the woman I came from, the woman of whom I am a piece, a rib. But each time she opens her mouth, I find that she is just an echo.