My six-year-old has gorgeous hair. It’s silky, long, straight and blonde—the perfect Jan Brady hair that I wished to have when I was her age. As a matter of fact, I recall walking around with a yellow towel on my head, tucked behind my ears, in my own attempt to cover up my own plain, mousy-brown head.
I try hard as a mom to raise strong, intelligent women who are beautiful on the inside and outside. I compliment my girls when they are good people and kind and thoughtful and considerate. I compliment them when they look pretty too. I like giving positive reinforcement to bolster their self-confidence when its warranted.
This morning, as I was brushing her golden locks, I told her that she was beautiful. I shared it as quickly as the thought passed through my brain.
My daughter turned to look me squarely in the eye and said, “You always tell me that. You tell me I’m beautiful all the time and that makes me think you don’t really mean it.”
How is it that this little girl could twist my words, words of honesty and a compliment no less, and perceive them to be false and degrading?
Oh yeah, she’s my daughter.
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