Having daughters is an honor. Mothering them is equally complicated and wonderful, and at times, fascinating. I’ve watched my own daughters play dress-up, host tea parties, rock their babies, tap away on their toy laptops and call it “work,” design rooms and outfits, plan elaborate events, perform concerts in our living room, and decorate doorknobs with ribbon for different occasions. They are tiny wonders, waiting and wanting to be all grown up.
I am simultaneously horrified and humbled by the process of raising daughters, especially when I see them mimicking and mirroring me in ways I didn’t expect.
Norah, like, why are you, like, using the word “like,” like all the time?
Annie, it’s on my list of things to do today to ask you where you learned to make a list for everything.
Lillian, you don’t need to bring three bags with you in the car. Can you help me carry my three bags to the car?
They watch. They learn.
I have, for several years now, amassed an imaginary check list of things I want my daughters to know. If I’m honest, it is fueled by the fear of my sudden and tragic demise. Who will tell them all the things I would want them to know if I were suddenly gone? Morbid, but true.
Things I Want My Daughters To Know is my effort to intentionally begin to chronicle and capture all those little treasures my motherly hearts wants my girls to know. As it stands now, most of the topics I want to cover (yes, I have a list) are very practical in nature, perhaps a bit amusing or unexpected. Things like “don’t pick your nose,” and the like.
It goes without saying (as I proceed to say it anyways) that in addition to wanting them to know not to pick their nose, I want them to also know things like how much Jesus loves them, and that contentment can’t be found in anything other than a relationship with Him. But I feel confident that there are scads of people out there who can teach them this if I were to be struck by lightening or fall down a well. I stupidly (also fair to insert any of the following adverbs: pridefully, arrogantly, foolishly, et.al.) think that I am the only woman in their life who will ever tell them it’s bad form to pick their nose. Like I have a monopoly on motherly advice or something. Or, perhaps a more accurate assessment of my assumptions is that if I were to no longer exist, my daughters would somehow slip beyond the reach of my Father’s provision and love for them, and they would walk through this life picking their nose and not knowing any better.
Huh. Have to admit, I didn’t see all that coming. Writing brings the yucky dross right on up to the surface, doesn’t it? I might need to repent of my motives and remind myself of some truth about God and His sovereignty. Let me go ahead and add that to my list of “Things I Want Myself To Know.”
All my erring motives aside, I will assume you get the point about what I want these post to be.
What I don’t want them to turn into is a soap box. These posts are not my way of banging my drum and selling anyone on why my opinion is the right one. It is the subjective nature of opinion that, by definition, leaves everyone open to form their own, including you, and including my daughters. I want my girls to think for themselves and freely live their own lives one day. But, as their mother, I want to add my opinion and perspective to their arsenal of information and contributing factors that they will use to determine why and how they make decisions.
It’s not that I expect them to think like me, but I want them to know why I think the way that I do.
I also think these posts will provide interesting fodder for conversation and the opportunity for you to chime in along the way via the comments below. Maybe you think “don’t pick your nose” is awful advice. I’d love to hear why. Or maybe you wish your own mother had taught you not to pick your nose. I bet you have a funny story about how you learned that the hard way. Or maybe you agree that nose picking is a no-no. It’s always good to hear encouraging words from fellow mothers and daughters. Let’s dive into this together!
So, now I can, like, cross this post off my, like, to-do list, but I, like, can’t remember which bag I put my list in. Here’s to mothering!