She's been asking for short hair ever since I shaved my head in October, 2011. I promised I would cut hers short when she was old enough that people wouldn't mistake her for a boy. All because I remember, too well, the pain of being called a boy throughout high school.
I was afraid she would look too grown up. I was afraid of losing control by letting her decide what to do with her hair. I was afraid I'd do a bad job.
Softball season has started, and she looks miserable out on the sun-drenched field, and I put aside my fears and get out the shears. Growing up was not fun for me, but this innocent little soul revels in each passing day, revels in being almost as tall as me, revels in sharing shoes with me, revels in the responsibility and freedom that comes with age.
It is an important part of my healing, to call out fears that stem from my own twisted experience and check them against the facts. Does growing up always mean bad mistakes, loneliness, and depression? No! I hope and pray for something different for my children. And as I force myself to walk in to my counselor's office every week, it is this dream that keeps me going even when I hate the work of therapy: I want to be the last generation of this family that suffered abuse.
Lord, hear my prayer. Please make this true, please protect my babies. Even when they aren't babies anymore.
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