“Be good to her. She’s rare.” ~r.h. Sin
My daughter is exceptionally beautiful. I’m not just saying this because I’m her mom. She is fourteen years old and she turns heads everywhere she goes. People always tell me that she should be a model. I’m not saying this to brag. I’m saying this because it is terrifying to have a fourteen year old daughter who walks in front of me at the grocery store while creepy old men walk by, staring her up and down like a piece of meat. They don’t even notice the madness in my eyes while they are so obviously drooling over the little girl that I have nurtured and protected since she was a seed in my belly. I could dig their eyes right out of their fucking heads with my bare hands.
She met a boy last weekend while we were on vacation. He won’t stop sending her pictures of her name drawn in the sand with hearts around it. I like that boy, he is her own age and lives miles away from us. I don’t like the soon-to-be eighteen year old boy who keeps inviting her out for dates. She thinks he’s hot AF, as she and her friends describe him. I want to grab an ax and go all Paul Bunyan on the pedestal these girls have placed him on. He looks like a complete douche to me, and I think he should find a girl his own age.
I’ve done my best to educate her on soon-to-be eighteen year old boys and their intentions. I’ve tried to encourage her to love herself so fiercely, that any guy would have to prove himself undeniably for a piece of her heart. But she’s fourteen and full of hormones and hungry for life experience.
I was a fourteen year old girl too. I get it, I do. But I can’t help but to realize that my grip on her is fading. Every passing day, she is less mine and more her own. I’m learning how to replace leading her with guiding her. And it’s so fucking hard, but I know that she will be grown and gone in the blink of an eye.
She’s completely oblivious to the creepy old men. Her eyes are fixed on their sons. And I want so badly for her eyes to be fixed on her own dreams. I want her to fight vigorously for a future that suits her, one where she lives happily with all of her greatest aspirations attained.
I see pieces of myself in her, and it scares the hell out of me. I always took the wrong roads, the hard roads. I want so badly for her to hear my voice, to see my fingers, pointing her into the direction of least resistance. But she is my daughter and her will to make her own road is unwavering.
It’s an odd thing, giving precious life to a child and watching them take it into their own hands. I needed more time. I will always need more time.