Tag Archives: love

December 28, 2013

Baby Girl

By Steph

She’s got this little round belly and this confidence that just goes on forever. She sings at the top of her lungs and dances with complete abandon. Watch me! Look at this! I made this song for you! She is all that is beautiful and if you ask her if she is smart she will yell, “YES!” and then tell you all she knows, and some things she doesn’t. She knows she is funny and isn’t afraid to tell a joke, and even if no one else gets it, she will be the one laughing the loudest. If she wants a hug, she will just open her arms and know that arms will enfold her too. She knows she is loved. She knows she is precious.

She will always be beautiful to me. But I want so much, so, so much for her to keep this ability to see the beauty in herself. When she has lost her chubby baby belly, is that when she will start judging the way her body is shaped? At what point does the world teach her to lower her voice, her eyes, her head?

I want to wrap her up in her innocent self-love so that it stays with her always, so that she never, ever wonders about her own worth. I don’t want her to lose her golden-fine little girl hair only to gain her mother’s insecurities.

I can’t stop the world from affecting my child in ways that I will not always like. But I can show her every day a woman who is not afraid to laugh, to love, to sing loudly, and to dance with abandon. A woman who loves herself, as she is.

8 Comments | tags: beauty, confidence, Dance, daughters, little girls, love, smart, Yes | posted in parenting, small humans, thoughts

November 28, 2013

My Grandma’s Room

By Steph

pop-steph

When I was a little girl my grandma’s room was full of wonders.

On her bedside table, then as now, sat a small white lamp and a thick black bible, well-worn even then. How many uncountable times did my grandma sit on the side of that bed, slowly turning brittle pages, seeking comfort, or peace, or giving praise?

My grandma’s dresser was no dainty bit of vanity. Made of heavy wood with drawers down both sides and carved doors in the center, it was strong and beautiful and I swear, those doors called to me. To be allowed to sit before that chest and hold a lap full of silk, the faded ink of love letters, the glitter of glass beads, and all those memories, her memories, in my hands…

My grandpa’s wardrobe was taller, more imposing, less accessible. But when he swung wide the big double doors, even a child could see it was full of dreams. Medals of honor and badges of war – curious jewelry to a child – shared space with carefully rolled papers and a violin. His maps to castles in the air.

On my grandpa’s nightstand, then as now, sat a small white lamp and, nearby, a guitar. How many uncountable times did my grandpa sit on the side of that bed, strumming with nimble fingers, seeking comfort, or peace, or singing praise?

My grandma’s room is much the same, then as now. It’s in a new house and some things have changed. My grandma still sits on the side of that bed. She still has that old black bible. My grandpa sang his last song this year, and now I sit on the side of that bed, finding comfort, seeking peace, and, as I look to those carved double doors full of memories and dreams, I give praise.