This right here? Is my daughter.
She'll be fifteen in a few days. She's more than halfway through her freshman year of high school. This is what she wears: khaki pants, collared shirt, cardigan. The collared shirt and khakis are required at her school, but this would be what she would typically wear even if it wasn't required. She might wear jeans instead of khakis, but other that that? This is pretty much her.
I think I went to six different stores to find her a pair of khaki pants which did not show off everything she had. During the summer when she tried on shorts, she was horrified that she couldn't find even one pair that was long enough. Cardigans? Forget about it. I found them at a store that caters to a decidedly older demographic. Even her plain shirts are cut smaller than the similar ones I buy for her brother.
I appreciate my modest daughter. Why can't you?
Not every girl wants to show off her body, and that's okay. It's more than okay by me.
She's almost fifteen. She's figuring out who she is. She's taking classes that interest her. She reads everything she can get her hands on. She dreams of college. She writes amazing stories. She acts. Several days a week she slaps on her tennis shoes and walks for exercise. She can kick my butt in several video games. She has tons of friends, both male and female, but decided on her own that she didn't want to get serious with any boyfriends for a good long while so she can focus on school and get into the college of her choosing. She loves old reruns of Family Ties. Her favorite boy band is The Beatles.
Yes, she has boobs. She has hips. She has pretty much a perfect size five figure.
She doesn't want to show it to you.
She is the most kind-hearted, loving, sweet, giving person I've ever met. She's hysterically funny. She's brilliant. She's incredibly self-aware...far more than I was at her age. Far more than I am now, frequently.
She wears not one drop of make-up. She inherited my good hair. She bemoans the pimples that appear on her chin and dutifully scrubs on medication in the morning and at night.
Boys ask her out, write their phone numbers on her hand. She doesn't even have to try. She doesn't even want to try.
Right now? She doesn't even care.
I make her watch Sixteen and Pregnant with me. She's horrified, which is my goal. We talk frankly about most everything, because that is important. It's important for her to know that she's loved and it's important for her to feel like she has someone she can tell anything.
She's not ashamed of herself, not in any way. She's careful and appropriate. She does what she feels is right.
She's not a little girl anymore. I know that. She knows it too.
But she's not a grown-up either.
We don't ask for much, really. It's hot here. She needs shorts that are long enough so that she doesn't feel embarrassed while she's riding her bike. She needs dresses that aren't so short she's afraid to bend over. She needs tops that aren't so low cut they show everything, so tight that she asks me to buy a larger size for her because of the cut.
She doesn't want to be a kid. She's not a baby. She's just not a grown-up yet either. There has to be something in-between.
My daughter is more than I ever dreamed she would be. She is more than I deserve.
Please. Just let her be her.