The first of many tough questions

Liv is increasingly self-aware.  She's getting old enough to articulate things and is started to get more and more curious about the world around her.

For example, she refuses to wear "jeans."  Many a mornings are full of LOUD protests at the suggestion.  She complains because they're "jeans" not "pants."  Whatever.  Reasoning with a 3-year old is not my strong suit and I wouldn't suggest it to anyone.

There's a little girl named Rylee at the girls' daycare.  Rylee wears jeans.  One morning, Liv announces that "I like jeans.  I'm going to wear them today. I'm going to be cool."  And the peer pressure, whether it was intentional or not, begins.

Tonight, after bath, Liv brushed her bangs out of her face and had a profound moment.  She said, "Oh no!  My poor red mark."  This is not the first time that she's noticed her angel-kiss birthmark on her forehead.  I've never wanted to make her self-conscious, so I just tell her that it's something that happened when she was growing in mom's tummy and it's special.  I don't dwell on it because I don't want her to.

When she asks me about her birthmark, inside, my heart is breaking.  She doesn't like something about herself and she's only 3.  Sure, it's not earth-shattering for her yet, and I pray that it won't ever be.  Kids are mean.  They will find anyway to tease you.  I was tall and I was teased for having pants that were always too short.  "Highwaters!"  "Where the flood?"  Stupid, mean kids.

I remember being in the hospital, holding this tiny little creature and noticing that she had red marks on her nose, eyelid and right, dead-center on her forehead.  Nate and I asked the nurses about it and they assured us it was just her getting "banged up" on her way out.  That first night, my doctor came in to check on me and Olivia, and we asked her.  She took her thumb, swiped it across the mark, watched it change colors and said "Nope.  That's a birthmark."  My heart sank.  Again.  Kids are mean.  She was perfect and beautiful and my daughter; I didn't care, but I knew people (i.e. those aforementioned mean kids) would care.  And what's worse, they could TEASE her about it.

Minutes old and already perfect.

Tonight, when she asked, I tried a different approach, mostly because she asked "how did it get when I was inside your tummy."  Thank GOD the questions wasn't "how did I get inside your tummy."

I told her:

When God decided to give you to me and let me be your mom, an angel kissed you in heaven before you was sent to grow in my tummy and live with me and dad.

She seemed satisfied with that.  And so am I.  She's going to face a thousand heartaches over a thousand different things.  I know I can't protect her from all of that, though try as I might.  Maybe I can take that thousand and bring it down to only nine-hundred or so.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Liz, that is the cutest thing ever! You're such a good momma.

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