Unless We Tell Them: To Our Daughters
My daughter and I are, essentially, birthday buddies. She is on March 30, and I quickly follow on the 31st. The night before her family birthday party, as I was trying my darnedest not to get pink icing on my jeans as it refused to stay in the pastry bag, I began thinking of what I thought 30 would look like fifteen years ago.
I was sure I would be gray.
After always having 20/20 vision, I would have to resort to wearing glasses.
I would be toting mom jeans- whether I was a mother or not.
Who puts these dire notions in the heads of young girls? That 30 means you're put out to pasture?
I mean, so I have a few gray hairs. A FEW. And I pull them out, and then highlight the rest blonde so you can't tell.
I don't wear glasses-though, they're so trendy now I kinda wish I did.
Please Jesus forgive me if this is a lie, but I'm fairly certain I do not wear mom jeans. Unless, because I am a Mom now, all of of my attire falls into the mom category.
My daughter is two years old, and it terrifies me to think that she may be led to believe that her life is over before she graduates high school. It frightens me that she may measure her hips in the eighth grade the way I did, and cry when I couldn't fit into anything in the juniors section. When did it become cool to stay a little girl, both physically, mentally, and even, spiritually?
I am so guilty of measuring my worth by my pants size, or by my age. But, I have a daughter now. And it's my job to teach her what is true- not what I WANT TO BELIEVE IS TRUE. You know what I mean. I mean all of those women out there with flowery rhetoric about the beauty of stretch marks, the silvering of age, the widening of womanhood. Oh shut up. Stretch marks are ugly. Gray doesn't look good on everyone. I am not the only one mourning the loss of my size 6-or 8, for that matter- jeans. Stop lying about how it looks- as it only pushes our girls further and further toward the unsavory social claims of self-worthy being measured by beauty. Stop it- and start talking about what it MEANS.
I will tell my daughter that the stretch marks I bear on my stomach, across my hips and thighs are not pretty- they are not supposed to be. They represent the struggle in the part of her story in being born. It doesn't make me feel empowered when I look at them. They don't make me feel beautiful. It's deeper than that. They remind me what it took to get you here. When you are being terribly behaved, uncooperative, abrasive, mean- I look at them and remember the suffering it took to get you here. I look and remember. I remember the pain, the aching, the fear. I remember what it was all worth. I look at the scars and I am reminded of how we met one another. Both of us, unable to really see the other, but we knew we belonged to each other. My stretch marks aren't beautiful, they are bigger than that. Because I can see them and know I would do it all again. For you.
I will tell my daughter that her life is only over when God says it is. Not a graying hair or a bigger pants size are adequate indicators. I will tell her what a joy it is to grow older- to be 30.
At 30, I have loved my husband for half of my life. I have written and sang and I have taught, and have been taught. I have maintained friendships and have made and continue to make new ones. At 30, I know what I want. What I want to eat, to wear, to say, or not to say. I know where I stand politically, ethically, spiritually. I know that God exists because I have seen Him work, and if God exists, and I know how ugly my sin can be, I know that he must have had a son whom he let die in my place. It's the only thing that makes sense to me. At 30, I know I am beautiful to my husband. I know because he is faithful in never missing a day in telling me. I know how to articulate my feelings, how to withhold and how to express. I am still taking risks- applying to graduate programs that I didn't get in to, flying to Paris with her Father.
At 30, my life is just beginning. with scars, and gray hair and bigger jeans. Who knew you could begin in such a way, when everyone is saying the opposite ?
Who will ever know unless we tell them?