*ahem*
A few months ago, I was laughing with my hair stylist and conversing about the latest signs of aging I've noticed on my person. I asked her, "So when does one give up trying to fight aging and just let it all happen?" She stopped and her tone became very serious: "You must never, never, ever give up. You must fight it all the way." Uh-huh. I gulped. I tucked that nugget in my "note to self" file.
In recent days, I have found a small family of bright white hairs which settled nicely on the crown of my head. I immediately plucked them out and grimaced at them, daring them to produce more.
Other signs of mortality include extra smile lines and a gentle relaxing of the skin. I stare them down in the mirror until they don't bother me as much anymore.
I've started to workout again and secretly spurn my younger self for thinking that all one had to do was sweat a bunch to achieve a certain image. Mercy, this is hard.
I do manage to find gratefulness in the midst of these observations. Instead of speaking ill of my body, I remember its purpose: Legs are for walking and serving my family. Arms are for hugging and making dinner. Lips are for smiling.
And then: There is my dear Morgan. She's seven years old and doesn't know that she is pretty yet. I tell her she looks beautiful, but I don't have the guts to tell her that I think she is one of the most beautiful creatures I know. Somehow in the past seven years she has developed into a somewhat confident, amazingly creative and downright good looking child.
Now here is the part that I find difficult to express because it will sound like I want to be complimented or pitied and I may sound vain, none of which I desire:
Like most people, my inner junior-high-age side of me remembers the awkwardness of learning to do my hair and wear makeup and have people like or not like me based on how I looked that day. So it strikes me to my core when I see that, by golly, something beautiful came from my life.
And in the midst of that thought, I see a little girl looking into my eyes and telling me in not-so-many words that she is looking to me to see how to be a woman.
*Gulp*
I must be brave, I tell myself. I must shun thoughts of self-deprecation.
The sharp chin I've always disliked about myself? Hush, self. She's inherited it from you and she looks beautiful.
The melodramatic creativity? Be patient, Emily. She's a mini version of you.
The enthusiasm for making gifts for people? You.
The way her day is "really really good" or "the worst day ever"? You again.
And years from now when she finds that the magazines are telling her to do the impossible to look a certain way... she will look to you, Emily, to tell her how to be grateful for the way she is made.
God willing, I will be there when she delivers her first baby. I'll be there in the days after when she doesn't feel pretty and that her whole purpose is to produce milk for her baby. Which, in truth, it is.
God willing, I'll be there when she is a radiant bride. And a breathtaking date for prom. And a sleep-deprived mother. And a middle aged woman.
For today, I'll enjoy being her middle aged mother who needs to embrace all that God made me so that she will have the confidence to do the same. Spurn those white hairs.
