By Amber Warner
She’s absolutely perfect.
Long legs and curves in all the right places. Blue eyes and a smile that lights up the room. She runs, though sometimes she just doesn’t feel like it. She’s a hero to the underdog. All the boys like her, but she’s too busy saving animals.
I’m jealous of this All American Girl; she’s everything I never was. She’s pretty, popular and sincere.
She’s my daughter.
In my mind, it honestly doesn’t make sense to be jealous of one’s daughter. After all, I’m the one raising her. I’m the one teaching her to find her way in this world. However, I was told that I would never be able to raise children. I was a victim of child abuse. And, according to the experts, I was conditioned to repeat the pattern.
However, I couldn’t accept that. I had to stop the cycle.
My father crawled into my bed, my foster fathers abandoned me, my adoptive dad didn’t know how to relate and my father in law is baffled by femininity. I found a safe, faithful, understanding man to marry. He treats our daughter like a princess. He teaches her to draw. He tells her about boys.
He’s her hero.
I was told that I was ugly. I tell my daughter every day that she’s beautiful. She flashes her smile and responds with a confident, “I know.”
I was told that I was of no use and that I would forever drain the system. I’ve modeled work ethic to do whatever it takes, (within reason) to meet goals. To never give up though the big bad wolf is at the door.
Through our struggles, she’s learned compassion. She has a mature understanding that times are tough. Every Christmas, we struggle and every year, she wants to pull a name off the tree. She’s the student that brings the most canned food to the school food drive.
Of course, she isn’t perfect. She has her moments. She argues with her sister and she’s a typical teenage girl.
And I want to be like her when I grow up.
Editor: Dana Gornall