Daughter, This is Life

Last night, as I was giving my daughter a bath, she suddenly burst into tears. I was dumbfounded. Her seven-year-old world seemed to be crumbling as she twirled her fishing boat aimlessly around the tub. Then her angler-fish devoured her sea captain, and I knew we were in full-blown Greek tragedy mode. I thought I had at least five more years before this began!

"I hate my life! I hate my hair! I hate my friends! I wish Mr. Caleb wasn't leaving!"

Wow, even in my most FML moments, I lack the emo capabilities to articulate my frustrations so succinctly, and LOUDLY.

I comforted her the best I could, and twenty minutes later, she was happily watching Spongebob and eating her night-night PB&J. The angst had been neutralized with a few hugs and some carbs. All was soon forgotten. For her.

I've been musing all day. Seven-year-old Paige doesn't yet have the perspective to realize that these issues will plague her throughout her life. While we all wish our children a lifetime of effortless happiness, time has taught all of us thirty-somethings otherwise. Life is so incredibly hard at times. One day, you are floating; sipping your latte and watching birds fly by on a park-bench. The next, it's sleeting, you forgot your ice-scraper and your heater went out three weeks before. You should have made a trip to the mechanic instead of buying those shoes. Yes, that really happened.

So, this is my love-letter of sorts to an older Paige. I'm imagining her at 21, in a tiny apartment with a radiator that clangs loudly, and cats. Because she grew up with cats. Let's start from the last statement:

* "I wish Mr. Caleb wasn't leaving!"

You remember your first crush, right? Probably an older boy with a soft spot for flipping your bra-strap and making fun of you in front of your friends. Paige was lucky; her first crush was pretty darn nice. He made her paper cranes, spoke her strange little artistic language, and didn't call her "shy." That's a big deal. He had a Euro mohawk and a chiseled face like Prince Stefan in "Sleeping Beauty." Of course she fell hard. They would skate hand-in-hand at the roller rink, and he cast her as a Ghost Wolf in the school play. And then, his student teaching gig was up, he graduated college, and is leaving for France to teach English as a second language. I'll miss him too.

It's hard to tell your daughters about heartbreak: it's really something they just have to experience for themselves. As I watched her sob into the soap bubbles that night, I wanted to tell her about all the boys down the line. The unattainable jock, the bad-boy, the sweet guy that she probably won't give the time of day to. All those archetypes. All of those missed opportunities, and then those nights soaked with too much rum and little common-sense. It's going to happen. It happens to us all. Hopefully, she'll wait until she knows herself REALLY WELL to marry, and have the maturity to recognize a good, Jon Cryer thing when she sees it.

It took me long enough.

* "I hate my friends!"

This is a hard one. Friends are wonderful and awful at the same time. After a little delving, I found out that Paige had been excluded from a game of tag with her little peer group. While the mother-bear in me wanted to slap them, the mature adult in me that SOMETIMES claws its way to the surface realizes that this is just the way it is.

Sorry, Paige, but you're not always going to be the star. While you're perfect in my eyes, sometimes you aren't going to be the cool kid.

You will have friends that are lifers, or at least there for decades. These are the friends that will pass you a Xanax when you are putting your dog to sleep, and then drive you home and tuck you into your duvet. They'll forgive you when you forget about them while you are dating Mr. Wonderful and be there when you break-up with him, martinis in hand. They'll make you puke when you've had too much to drink. These friendships are rare. Treasure them.

Then there are frenemies. They will compete with you. They will show up at your wedding, dressed like a femme fatale just to try to steal a little bit of your glory. And when you call them on it, they will laugh at your irrationality. If you're lucky, you'll have a gay male friend who will put them in their place. They are good at this. Trust me.

And that leads me to male friends, straight or gay. Because, in my opinion, men make great friends. Don't get any crazy ideas that they are going to be a romantic interest - don't make that mistake. Take it for what it is, and you will find someone to bounce advice off of, laugh at your silly jokes, and dissolve drama. Every group of girls should have their token male. And that way, when he starts dating someone that you love, or hate, you will be close enough to tell him the truth. He should do the same for you. When I look back at my childhood friends, it's the boys I remember fondly. You're already one step ahead, because you are a phenomenal tomboy. Perfect.

* "I hate my hair!"

This one hit me kind of hard. She has beautiful, flowing cornsilk hair. The kind of blonde hair that people pay me hundreds of dollars a year to replicate. I told her all of this. No way. She wants hair like mine.

I have a secret to tell you, Paige. I hate my hair, too. It is a beast. It's curly, thick, and I break a sweat just thinking about blow-drying it. I stand behind the chair at the salon every day, helping women learn to love what they have. All of us struggle with our looks. I don't care if you are a size 2, with a perfect smile and breasts that point heavenward, you are going to find something to hate about yourself. It's part of being female. Blame Hollywood, blame magazines, blame Calvin Klein and those damned Brooke Shields ads. (I'm showing my age.)

The truth is, we just have to learn to accept that there's always going to be someone prettier than us, someone skinnier than us, someone curvier or taller than us. It's ok. If we all looked like a row of paper-dolls, it would be a plain oatmeal world. I'll take mine with butter and brown-sugar, please!

*"I hate my life!"

Yep. I have days where I have Coldplay on repeat, and want to bury my head in a trough of self-pity till Armageddon comes. It's ok. Some of your best artistic inspiration will come during times like this. You have that temperament. Blame your Irish and Native-American heritage. You come from volatile stock, babe. Embrace that and use it to your advantage. Do you think it was easy for Jim Morrison and Charlotte Bronte? Heck no! And let's not even go into Picasso. The people that love you will weather these times. They will put up with your mercurial cycling, and see your soul. Your soul is beautiful. Even the dark places.

You're a fighter - it's the thing I love most about you. I'm not ever going to lie to you, something I promised you when you were a tiny baby. I will always tell you the truth, even when it hurts me. Even if it stings your ego and makes you angry at me. But I CAN tell you one thing for sure, life is worth those lattes on the park-bench. Hold those moments close, and let the others roll off and away. Live a life without regret, and never stop learning. And bubble baths are good for you, even when you're 36.