For My Daughter

I recently had my first child, a girl we named Bronwyn.  As she gets older I find myself worrying about her a lot.  Not the standard worries about dropping her, or trying to eat the electrical socket, or not liking vegetables.

I worry that she will be self-concious.  I worry that someday a man or woman will make her feel useless and stupid.  I worry that she will spend years fretting over her weight, her skin, her hair.

I look at every part of her and I analyze it for me.  I think “oh, she has my knees,” and I apologize to her for that.   I apologize for giving her my very fine hair.  I pray for her father’s metabolism.

But in doing these things, I am reinforcing exactly the things I don’t want for her.  I don’t want her her to think that any of these things are a detriment.  I want her to know that she is strong and beautiful no matter what her knees look like or whether or not she is thin.  As much as I pride myself on my self-confidence, my concerns over her future insecurities tells me that I am still insecure, and I still need work if I am going to raise someone who is as sure of herself as I pretend to be.