Who, PhD

This is the piece that began my writing life. It started as a Facebook Note, written in the wee hours during the first week of my daughter’s life.

I submitted the piece to Scary Mommy (polished version here). Some readers shellacked me online because, when it first ran, I wrote “Dr. Who” instead of “Doctor Who” and, mortifyingly, “pass times” instead of “pastimes.”

Totally fair, I was wrong. Fortunately, the editors jumped in and fixed it. I love editors.

I also gave (and give) myself grace. I was caring for a newborn and twin toddlers, recovering from a C-section, writing random thoughts while running on approximately four minutes of sleep. Besides, making dumb mistakes is my brand. May I make smarter ones someday.

The piece below is the original Facebook Note (with the two errors above corrected). Some lines I’d rework or remove completely now, but it’s a good snapshot of that moment.

The baby in question is now in middle school. She’s remarkable, as are her brothers. I won’t say the worry was for nothing. Honestly, a lot of my worry is well-placed — or at least well-aimed. (See: the world.)

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Notes To My Daughter

I worry. I worry about the low expectations, the frilly expectations, the just-so-far-and-that’s-fine expectations for you.

“Smile!” will be begged of you by strangers on the street and friends alike. I give you permission to scowl, growl, reflect, cry, muse, sing, smile, wince all you want. It’s your face showing your heart. You do not owe the world a phony grin because we only want our girls to be happy.

Learning you were a girl brought on sighs of shopping for pink frills by well-wishers. I was assured of being thrilled. You were, according to some, a balance for your brothers. According to others, “girls rule, boys drool.” I cringe, as you might if you have sons someday…or daughters.

I hope you mix your Hermione Granger with some Judy Blume and a whole lot of Kurt Vonnegut. I hope you watch Doctor Who and Star Wars and Murphy Brown. Please cast a wary eye at the Kardashians and Twilight books and Real Housewives of Where Ever.

Women are funny. You can be more than the nurse, the wife, the exotic dancer in your scenes, if you want. You can even be more than that mythical “Brilliant Hooker.” Be the surgeon, be the husband, be the strip club owner, be the President.

You can be the ingénue, you can be the side kick, you can be Tree Number Seven.

There’s a lot to be said for being an alto. There’s a lot to be said for a cappella. Don’t be afraid of a solo.

I hope you learn to spike, field, kick, bat, dribble, run, if you want.

Pink isn’t bad, but pink isn’t all. Pink softens and dazzles. Pink is fine. Sequins are usually not.

Shout Holy Yeses as much as you can. The scary things teach and (if you’re lucky) inspire awe.

Don’t be afraid not to be liked. Be afraid of those who excuse rudeness.

Jump. Jump high.

From the moment you were born, the usual comments have been about your looks. Yes, you are beautiful, especially to your mama and daddy. Aspire to receive feedback about talents you honed, earned, and sweated for. Be dazzling. Be brilliant. Work hard. It’s not enough for you to be pretty. May being pretty matter less and less as life presents you with more interesting pastimes. Strive for brilliance, curiosity, devotion, passion, truth, humor, skill. There will still be room for pretty. The beautiful package (and it is beautiful) will be that much more precious if it’s filled with many unique gifts.

Have energy. Know when to stop.

Math isn’t hard. Math takes time for some people. Invest that time. It’s ok that there are right and wrong answers in math. There are right and wrong answers in the world sometimes.

Learn languages. Learn public transit. Learn to say no, thank you.

Be careful about using the word “bitch,” and please avoid the c-word. Other women are not your default enemy.

Learning to be concise is a gift to you and others. Listening is a greater gift.

The word “cute” really stops being a compliment after a certain age.

Worry about your health and feeling good. Indulge sometimes.

Savor.

Laugh.

Apologize.

Forgive.

Raise an eyebrow or two.

Stay my baby for a little longer and know that I would keep you wrapped up in my arms forever if I thought that would make you a better person…it wouldn’t, but it would sure feel good.

Whoever you turn out to be, whatever advice you do or don’t take…

I love you.

— Mama, on the occasion of your first week.