Fair Feisty Fearless

 "Every daughter contains her mother and all the women who came before her." 
--Christiane Northrup 

I was watching Camren and Bridget play on the trampoline one typical and uneventful afternoon.

As I walked over to Bridget--to rescue her from her rowdy brother--I looked at the dainty shape of her face, the fullness of her lips, and the brightness of her pretty, blue eyes. Her sweet, baby gaze never left mine and I matched her familiar smile. A realization melted through me then--like sunshine on skin, like warmth and light:

I can see me.

My beautiful children have always been their daddy's. His eyes. His hair. His chin. His personality. But then there is my Bridget Anne. And she's a little different.

Fair. Feisty. Fearless. Unique from the very beginning.

I loved deep to conceive her. I fought hard to grow her. I looked to the ceiling of a hospital room and prayed fervently to deliver her. Six weeks after her birth, I climbed steadily, painfully, out of the dark pit of anxiety and depression for her. It was all and always for her.

My baby. My daughter.

I saw myself in Bridget on that ordinary day, in a way I never had before. It was a moment as soft as a whisper, as breathtaking as a cool, summer breeze. An angel's kiss and a glimpse of heaven, reminiscent of standing in a holy place. It was both stunning and profound.

"There I am," I said, softly, as I kissed her silky cheek. I could see what I once was, as a little girl, reflected in her cherubic face.

I picked her up and carried her inside.
It was time to make our lunch.



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