Parenting has never come naturally to me. It may be easy for some, but it’s something at which I’ve had to work. Hard. And even then, I’m not great at it. The last thing I ever anticipated in life was to be responsible for three daughters. The idea still terrifies me a bit, but then I think about the calling. There is something powerful and inspiring about raising girls. I never knew how special it could be until I experienced it for myself. I had a chat about it with a friend at her house recently, and then with another friend at work the other day. I decided I wanted to write down the parts that my heart might need to hear again later.
If I do my part well and God does His, then my daughters have the capability of staying Daddy’s girl and being Momma’s best friend, well into their adult lives. My girls can be the ones who never grow too old or too cool to hug us in public. My girls can be the ones who actually enjoy spending time with their parents, the ones who choose us on a Friday night. They might grin from ear to ear as they introduce us to the men in their lives, and those grins might grow even bigger when they see that we approve. Legs could drape over the edges of my bed as they flip through magazines and borrow my nail polish, speaking their big dreams into existence. I might get to hear firsthand accounts of my girls handling tough situations with beauty and grace, at their schools and in their workplaces. I might to watch firsthand accounts of my girls managing conflict with men, as they navigate tender talks with their father. And my favorite part? These daughters of mine could be the first generation to grow up without the mean girl, if my generation continues to stand up to her in ours.