an open letter to my (future) adult daughter

Having a daughter is a funny thing. For me, many times, it's looking at this little girl growing up before my eyes, all tiny and happy and full of life, curious and still awed by the simple things, and knowing she's looking back at me thinking, that is the smartest woman on the planet. She's the epitomy of womanhood, and she's the one woman in the world I trust everything to. She's my role model. She knows everything about being a girl, about being a mom, about being strong and intelligent and beautiful and courageous.

It's heavy, sometimes, to look into those big blue eyes and see such faith placed in such an imperfect me. But it also makes me feel honored and proud, that anyone - anyone! - on the planet would trust me with so much, put so much stock in my meager life experience, would look up to me. Diana and I often have the conversation/philisophical volley about only those who actually are competent ever question their competency... but it gets me to thinking about being a good mom.

I say good, because I mean good and not perfect. I am not perfect, and won't be. I sometimes get annoyed, or cannot answer a preschooler question while merging into rush hour traffic, and snap at my sweet little girl who didn't really do anything wrong. Sometimes, its easier to sit and watch Finding Nemo for the 1132nd time than it is to work on learning how to read. And some days, I just give up on "two more bites" or "drink all your milk" and just let her have the blessed bowl of ice cream.
I know things don't get easier as we both get older. She's going to run into conflict with other girls (or boys) at school. She's going to get her feelings hurt, her knees scraped, her ego bruised. She's going to have to face a bully, or a mean girl. She's going to struggle to learn something (I was a total kiddie nerd and angsted all through elementary school about my phys ed and handwriting grades).
And then she's going to turn into a pre-teen or whatever they are calling those kids now. And I'm going to get really stupid for about 5 or 6 years. I will have no taste in fashion, or music. I'll know nothing about friendships or relationships. I will have no idea what it's like to be an angsty teenager (even though, christ, some days I still feel like I am an angsty teenager. Well, not quite so bad as it was. But the memory doesn't really fade like I thought my parents' memories of angsty teenhood did... huh.)

So, while she's still cute and adoring me, and while I'm still marvelling at the delighfulness that is childhood - I want to tell my future daughter something:

Daughter mine, sweet child who will always be perfectly herself:

Don't ever doubt how very much I love you. I know we're not always going to see eye to eye - and I know you and I both have stubborn streaks that try most everyone around us - and I know that you and I are both going to make choices over the course of our lives that confound one another. That being said: I'd jump in front of a freight train for you, in half a heartbeat, even at my most exasperated. You are my daughter, and in the four years I've been blessed with you, you have taught me more than I ever thought I could learn from another person. I cannot imagine how you will shape me for the remainder of my days; I can only pray and hope I do as good a job shaping you in the 14 years of childhood I have left.

My goals for you are happiness, contentment, and fulfillment. I want for you, daughter mine, a life filled with joy. I want you to find work that makes you happy, that makes you feel purposeful and fulfilled. I want your life to be filled with respectful, healthy relationships with friends and family who cherish you, fully. I want you to experience nonjudgemental, unwavering, unconditional love. I don't really care how you find happiness. It doesn't matter to me what you do for work - who you fall in love with - where you live - where you study - what brings you joy. I'm actually really excited to just come along with you on the journey and watch you unfold into the Essential Paige someday. I'm honored that I will get to be there.

Because I want you to find fulfillment, contentment, and happiness, I have to uphold a certain part of this equation. I have to fulfill some obligation, some promise as your parent. I promise to expose you to and demonstrate to you repsectful, mature, caring relationships. I promise to provide you with good friends and family that nurture who you are, uniquely. I promise to laugh with you as much as I can, and cry with you when you need it. And I promise to back off when you need to try things on your own. With the caveat that I'll always be just a few steps behind if you need backup. I promise to teach you how to handle the crap life invariably doles out, but I'll teach you how to handle it like an adult. I promise to teach you how to respect others, how to stand up for yourself without being selfish, how to reach your goals, how to be happy in the moment and enjoy the journey. Most of all, I promise to support the Essential Paige, however she needs to be supported. I promise to listen. I promise to apologize when I screw up. I promise to forgive you when you do the same.

When you think of it, sweet Paige, it is strangely awesome to be a mom. A lot of it is mostly unpleasant and definitely self-sacrificial, when you look at it on paper -- but it never feels that way. And if you want to be a mom someday too (and you don't have to be), it will be equally awesome to share my experience raising you as you raise a child of your own.

These words don't mean much to you now, all 4-years-old and ready to absorb all the learning the world has to offer -- and they probably aren't going to mean much to you in 10 years when I'm just mean old mom. But someday, I want you to know: everything I did raising you was aimed at helping you be Perfectly Paige. It was intentional (although it's not going to be a perfect attempt at parenting). And it all grew out of this giant-sized love and respect I have for you, love you just don't understand til you try a hand at parenting for yourself (and even then, wonder half the time how all that love fits inside your tiny little adult heart that's so full of other crap to worry about).