Gettin' It Right, One Father At A Time

There is something about fathers and daughters.

I have gotten a lot wrong in my life, and a lot right. But whether it be luck or providence or instinct (or, more likely, an amalgam of all of this and more), something divine and lovely led me to the best decision I have ever made: choosing the most kick-ass man in the world to procreate with. Whenever I despair about trying to raise two confident, independent, centered, and unapologetically strong women, I comfort myself with the knowledge that they already have a major leg up. They have a Daddy who loves, respects, accepts, and champions them. A Daddy who would do anything for them. A Daddy who works tirelessly to provide for them. A Daddy who celebrates who they are and nurtures who they will be. A Daddy who is constant in his love and attention. A Daddy who relishes living in a house full of women. A Daddy who will always, always, always be there for them. So, I figure Father's Day is a wonderful excuse to honor the best damn father I know, Mr. Christopher Robert Mathews. We love you, baby.

Today is also a great time to acknowledge ALL the amazing fathers out there that are doing their best, and doing it well. I came across a blog post the other day from one such father that touched me so deeply. I don't know this person at all. He is just someone I stumbled across online whose words and thoughts reminded me of my own husband and the wishes we have for our daughters. Click here to read his open letter to his daughter. Seriously. Go ahead. You'll be glad you did.

Happy Father's Day to all the daddies far and wide...especially to my own Daddy, Larry P.

Beauty. Love. Safety.

Rough night in the Mathews household.

Emma was a grumpy, mouthy mess most of the afternoon. Finally, after multiple reprimands and consequences, I asked out of sheer frustration, "What is wrong with you?"

She climbed onto my lap, put her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and started unloading a jumble of thoughts that were clearly weighing heavily on her. She doesn't like the way she looks. Her hair has holes in it and doesn't "stick together" and hang straight like she wants. Her face is a mixture of mine and Chris's, but she doesn't look like either one of us, just a weird blend of both of us that doesn't add up and makes her feel "like I'm not yours, like, for real." She likes her legs and her feet and her arms, but what does it matter if her face and hair are not perfect? Kids at school tell her she looks weird. Her teeth are crooked, her eyes are too big, her nose is "fat," her ears stick out. She hates all the clothes she wears because they don't cover up her face, and she wants me to help her change it, change her, so she looks like somebody new, somebody beautiful.

I was completely, utterly stunned. I tried hard to take in what she was saying and not just rush in with compliments and contradictions. I endeavored to keep my expression neutral, but my mind was churning with despairing thoughts: Dear god, this starts at eight years old??? I am wholly unprepared to tackle these issues so soon. What do I do? What do I say? What do I not say? How to proceed?

I told her I thought she was beautiful. She said I was just saying that because I am her mom. I told her that what she was feeling was common, that many people struggle with accepting who they are and how they look, including myself. She said she didn't believe me. I told her that nobody is perfect, and that our imperfections are actually what make us most beautiful, both inside and out. She said she didn't understand.

So I just shut up and held her. After awhile, she mumbled into my neck, "I don't want to leave here."

I thought she meant that she didn't want to leave our apartment, because we are moving in three days. But she clarified that she meant "here" literally, as in where she was at that exact moment.

"When I am in your arms, I feel safe. Your skin is warm and I can feel your heart beating and I know that you love me no matter what. I wish I could always be with you, and then I would never be scared."

I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Emma, what you just said was beautiful. That is beauty. Love is beauty. All the rest of it - the hair, the face, the clothes - those are just distractions. Please don't let yourself get distracted."

She took this in, looked into my eyes, and said, "Okay. I think I understand, Mommy. That I understand."

I held her for a bit more before Sophie got tired of sharing me and wiggled her way in between us. I watched Emma resume cleaning her room, still struck dumb by the most mature and profound conversation I have ever had with my daughter. Then I prayed that the next time she feels unworthy - whether it be five minutes, hours, days, months, or years from now (oh please god, let it be years...can it please be years?) - she will remember the safety of my arms as she navigates the twisty road of self-doubt and self-loathing. Because honestly, as much as the knowledge terrifies me, I know that a safe place to fall is the only true and tangible thing I have to offer her. The rest she must do on her own. And I think she knows it too...which is a pretty shitty lesson to learn at eight years old.

Emma Bloomers Turns Eight

Emma's eighth birthday was Saturday.

It's always a hectic time of year for us because her big day is surrounded by several other important events: Chris's birthday, several close friends' birthdays, her Paw-Paw's birthday, and Father's Day all in a one week span. It's been an especially hectic time this year because we just closed on a new house (FIRST. HOUSE. EVER!) and are preparing to move this Saturday. So amid the chaos of boxes, to-do lists, and elevated stress levels that currently make up our lives, we squeezed in a birthday celebration for Miss Emma Bloom.

We went out to lunch and then to the pool for the afternoon. Although it was a pretty laidback celebration, the day still required some planning and an extra vehicle (thank you, Aunt Jayme!). Luckily, it all went off without a hitch...with one troubling exception. Emma invited three friends along, and two of the girls were utterly delightful. The third? Um...well, since I don't really derive any joy from denigrating second graders, I'll just say that one of Em's friends was apparently having a bad day and decided to bring some screaming and public tantrum-throwing to the party. Chris and I handled this alarming and oft-repeated behavior with as much compassion as we could muster, while exchanging looks that essentially translated to, "Hmmm...maybe our eight-year-old isn't as bad as we thought?" Ultimately, I had to have a rather uncomfortable conversation with the girl's mother and father, who were as lovely as any parents could be under such awkward circumstances. The whole thing was unfortunate, but Emma still had fun, which is all that really matters.

Because life seems to be moving at warp speed at the moment, I haven't had a chance to really process that my first baby is now eight years old. Truthfully, only one thing comes to mind as I think on it now: I feel really, really old. Of course, I also feel really, really lucky to be the parent of such an amazing, fierce, and dynamic little girl. But that has nothing to do with Emma's age, and everything to do with her heart.

Love you, Emma Bloom.

 Pay no attention to the boxes that have completely overtaken our apartment. 

I'm trying not to dwell on the fact that our home currently feels like an obstacle course.

Emma with her friend Juliette. 

Nothing like a birthday sundae and several waiters singing to you in a crowded restaurant to put a smile on a girl's face.

How Many Movies Am I Holding Up?

Sophie and I went to Target today so she could pick out a birthday gift for Emma. We found ourselves in the DVD section, where Sophie promptly pointed to a movie on the shelf.

Soph: "We could get her this Despicable Me. She hasn't seen this one."

Me: "Yes, she has. You both have. That's the one you have at home already."

Soph (pointing to an identical copy): "What about this one? Let's get THIS Despicable Me!"

Me: "That's the same movie."

Sophie frowned, but kept silent. Then she spotted yet another copy of the movie.

Soph: "Okay, let's buy this one! This one we haven't seen!"

Me: "Honey, yes you have. They are all the same movie. There is only one Despicable Me."

Sophie: "No, there isn't. There is three of them. See?"

Me: "Well...yes, there are three copies of the movie here, but they are all the same. See? Look at them side-by-side. The pictures on the front are all the same. It's the same movie."

Sophie: "But it's NOT the same movie. They are three DIFFERENT movies. I staring at them!"

Me: "I know it's confusing, but inside the box, it's the same movie. It's just Despicable Me in all three of them."

Soph: "I KNOW that. But they are different despicables, and I want to get the one that Emma hasn't seen."

Me: "Sophie. No. They are not different. That's what I'm trying to tell you. They are all the same movie."

Soph: "Mommy...ugh! Just...LISTEN to me. I KNOW they are all Despicable Me. I want the Despicable Me squeakuel. Like the chipmunks. WHICH ONE IS THE SQUEAKUEL?"

Me: "Honey, there is no squeakuel...er, sequel, for Despicable Me. It's not the same as the chipmunks. There is only one movie."

Sophie: "NO THERE ISN'T, THERE IS THREE! ONE, TWO, THREE!"

Me: "Sophie, stop screaming and listen to me. I know there are three boxes, but..."

Soph: "I AM COUNTING THEM. ONE! TWO! THREE!!!"

Me: "SOPHIE! Yes, there are three movies in my hand, but they are ALL THE SAME MOVIE!"

Suddenly, a heavenly angel Target employee who had overheard our entire exchange grabbed all three movies right out of my hand and said, "Whoops! These aren't supposed to be out here. They're broken! We can't sell any of these today. Sorry!"

Sophie and I both looked at him for a few seconds with our mouths hanging open. Then my previously apoplectic four-year-old merely shrugged her shoulders and said, "Oh. Okay."

Before I even had a chance to thank him, he turned abruptly and skedaddled down the aisle and through an "Employees Only" door with all three bothersome copies of Despicable Me stuck snugly under his arm. After he was completely out of sight, I turned to Sophie.

Me: "Well? What do you want to get Emma?"

Sophie: "Um...let's get the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie...the SQUEAKUEL one."

Me: "Done."

Sophie: "Do you think that movie will be broken too?"

Me: "No, baby. I think that movie will be perfect."