I took ten minutes out of my day today and just stared in the mirror.
Ever do that? I have not done it for quite some time.
I studied my eye lashes and my iris in my eyes. I studied my nose and my lips. I studied my goosebumps and the grey in my hair, which I can easily hide were I not to have my hair in a ponytail.
I wanted desperately to see who I used to be when I was eight years old. I wanted to see her again and think, “I look the same.”
Do I?
People tell me I look like my daughter but when I see her, I think to myself, “How?” She’s perfect and I am far from it.
I wonder if she will have busy eyebrows like mine. Or if she will suffer from shiny skin, too. Will she have pimples? And will her hair be so wild that people will call her, “cave woman”? That was my nickname as a kid. I hated it. I cried every night for a long time.
I wonder in a way that makes no sense. I don’t worry about her. I worry for me.
If I don’t see myself at age eight, how else will I muddle through the craziness of late. If I don’t find that fearless kid in the roller skates soon, I will be just like all the other mommies. If I don’t find my daughter in me instead of the vice versa I find so readily, I will be bummed.
And yet, tonight I am going to bed feeling she’s going to find her way.
