You did what with my daughter?
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You did what with my daughter?
10 Reasons Your Daughter Is The Greatest Gift You'll Ever Receive
Photo: Nataliya Sdobnikova / Shutterstock
By Susannah B. Lewis — Written on Dec 23, 2020
My daughter was born on a warm June night nearly fourteen years ago.
Hours after she came into this world, my husband slept as I held my firstborn, my little girl, in my arms and we stared at each other.
She didn't cry or squirm. We just silently studied each other's faces in the dim light of the hospital hallway, and I knew right then that my life had changed for the better because my daughter is the greatest gift I have ever received.
Here are ten reasons why my daughter is the greatest gift I've ever received:
There's no prettier child to me, inside or out. Her compassionate heart , adventurous spirit, and bright blue eyes remind me every day that there is still good in this world.
We laugh as melting ice cream drips down our arms. We share the day's events as she snuggles beneath her blankets.
We love each other unconditionally , we apologize when we're wrong, we confide, we connect, and we communicate. We treasure the time we spend together.
She'll be the one to wipe applesauce from my chin when my trembling hands are faulty.
She'll be the one to take me to doctor's appointments and push my wheelchair.
She'll be the one to care for me when I can no longer care for myself.
I know I'll be able to depend on her when my time on earth winds to a close and I can think of no other person I'd rather spend that time with than her.
She's still a little girl, so she believes that I hung the moon. She takes my word solely because it is mine.
She still comes to my defense when the world tells me I'm not good enough, important enough, or smart enough.
She believes in me — and I hope she always will.
No matter what the day throws at me, my daughter's smile can make the world right again. It's powerful, magical, and spiritual.
I know the teenage years are coming . I know we will disagree and argue, but the bond between the two of us will never break.
She's too important, precious, and loved by me to ever let that happen.
I brag about my daughter often, and I'll never apologize for it.
I want the world to know that this beautiful, kind, compassionate, loving, smart, and talented child belongs to me. She's my greatest source of pride.
I've failed miserably at a million things, but she's not among them.
One look at her and I know I've done something right in this lifetime.
Everything I love about her father, I love about her. My strengths are evident in her.
She's the two of us, without the many faults and flaws that we possess.
She is my daughter, my light, my life. She is mine.
A son is your son until he marries a wife, but your daughter is your daughter for the rest of your life.
Susannah B. Lewis is an author, blogger, and podcaster. Her videos and articles have been featured in Reader’s Digest, US Weekly, Yahoo!, Huffington Post, Unilad, The Weather Channel, and more. Follow Susannah on her Facebook page Whoa Susannah .
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On this walk there were many people like me. And by that I mean normal-ish people in their thirties, who struggle with horribly mundane problems like five nagging pounds and crowded Starbucks lines and premature gray hair. And by that I also mean, they have lost a child.
I’d be lying if I said I looked forward to such walks anymore: Saturday mornings and all their promise. I’d be lying if I said I never found myself looking back; that pink ribbon never shook me.
“Can I call anyone?” the nurse had asked, her hand shaking over mine. “It’s better if you’re not alone.”
I remember the words sounding strange, and I remember noting the time. Spaghetti dinner, and I would ruin it.
In the beginning these walks were like a tourniquet. Life-saving. I craved connection and commemoration and steps; the purposeful kind. The kind that offered a glimpse into the lives of others like me. The kind that provided pain but also hope, in the form of tiny feet peeking out from strollers to my left. In the beginning, I needed hope as much as I needed oxygen.
Lately, the longing to connect remains beneath the surface. At times it’s quite muted amidst the bath schedules and mid-quarter grades and pack meetings and very, very early mornings in rocking chairs. I no longer need help falling asleep or Kleenex on my lunch break. I am sure to all who know me it seems that I’m doing okay, and I guess that would be the truth. I’m okay, although there remains a massive part of me that will never fit inside that word, and so I walk.
This year a woman approached me near the end. I turned to face the river and she was beside me. “You don’t know me,” she said, “but when my son died, your writing helped and I wanted to thank you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked her in return and I asked her name and then I hugged her. Because sometimes, when your baby dies and there is a lifetime in front of you, words become small. And because always, when you meet someone who understands, words become dispensable.
I cried on the way home, but not because I was sad.
Too often anymore, she resides in afterthought. The sights and sounds of that hospital room have faded, blending too easily with the smiles in the foreground. But I still miss her, so immensely, with every breath. In the nearly five years since my daughter died, I have packed it all away for the sake of social comfort too many times to count, but it still hurts. I cried because when I close my eyes I can still feel her on my chest and after awhile, when you’ve hidden that weight behind too many sunglasses and play dates and empire waists it starts to feel heavy, and you have to set it down.
At home I composed myself in the driveway. Then I unbuckled two sleeping children from two car seats and tucked them into two beds in two separate rooms. I sat on the couch and I thought of the nurse from that night; the hitch in her voice at the welcome desk. Her grip on the ultrasound wand. The way her words were calming but her eyes were not.
Were she here, I would thank her for holding my hand, and for trying so hard to find what was no longer there. I would thank her for the paper; for helping me to write it down and I would tell her what the last five years have affirmed for me, time and again. This life is hard.
Here are 10 more things I learned after my daughter died.
What you’d prefer. Who should go first. When it will happen. If you’re ready or if you’re willing or what you’d give instead.
You’ve read her autopsy eleven times. You’re afraid to fall asleep and to wake up. Your hair is falling out and you’ve memorized crop circles on the ceiling and you haven’t showered in five days. You get up and you go to bed and she’s not there. You still have to pay the water bill.
Sit with you on the hospital bed. On the hospital floor. On the bedroom floor. On the bathroom floor.
Hold your daughter. Wrap her in tiny blankets intently, softly. Sing to her as if she were alive.
Sift ashes though their fingers, entwined with yours, into the ground.
Hold your head in their hands, hold your heart in their words.
Check in. Send a card . Stick around.
Insert anything here. Literally anything. Whatever you’re stressing over today, whatever’s depriving you of sleep or making your insides loose or shortening your words, you could be laughing about in an instant, tomorrow, trust me.
Their breath on the glass. Their hands on the fridge. Their cries down the hall and their hair in the shower. Their footsteps on the hardwood. Their spills. Their smells. Their eye rolls. The tops of their heads on your nose. Their texts and their awful jokes and their fevers at 3 am. Their carpet recitals and their holey sweatpants and their toys in the entryway. Breathe it in. Rinse and repeat. Forever.
Those people who didn’t call? That person who said that awful thing? They were trying. They didn’t try at all. They had no experience. They knew better. Forgive them. All of them. Forgive yourself, too.
Say hello. Slow down. Eat the bread. Make the drive.
Say goodbye. Endure. Remember. Survive.
This article was originally published on 3.5.2019
Having a daughter is undoubtedly a blessing, though raising a little girl with a high self-esteem in a world saturated
By Flavia Medrut
November 2, 2021
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Having a daughter is undoubtedly a blessing, though raising a little girl with a high self-esteem in a world saturated with digitally altered images of perfect women can be a real challenge.
The responsibility of building a daughter’s self- confidence falls first on the parents’ shoulders. Of course, there are many things to take into consideration here, but we can start by complimenting them more on who they are and what they are great at. This way we’ll make sure that our daughters understand their true value without looking for validation in a weekly fashion magazine.
Some of the following daughter quotes are words of encouragement for your girl, some describe the pure love of a parent, and some are simple reminders that whatever accomplishments you may have to date, raising a daughter is probably your biggest one.
If your daughter is young, she will grow up and start rolling her eyes. But that’s okay — she’s a teenager trying to find her true identity and her inner voice. The great news is that the values you’ve instilled in her will help her make better decisions, even under peer influence.
With a little help, she’ll finally turn into a fine young lady that knows how to take care of herself. That’s your reward. And don’t worry. No matter how strong, independent, and mature she may be, a daughter still needs her parents. You’re never too old for love quotes .
A daughter is a treasure and a cause of sleeplessness.
Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.
Every day is Father’s Day to me when I’m with her: when I’ll be able to hold my daughter and see her grow and see her smile. That’s Father’s Day to me every day.
When I come home, my daughter will run to the door and give me a big hug, and everything that’s happened that day just melts away.
Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters, there is something which there are no words to express.*
A daughter may outgrow your lap, but she will never outgrow your heart.
A daughter is a bundle of firsts that excite and delight, giggles that come from deep inside and are always contagious, everything wonderful and precious and your love for her knows no bounds.
Absolutely, I don’t believe in rules. As I tell my daughter when she is mischievous, ‘Well-behaved women rarely make history.’
I hope that my daughter grows up empowered and doesn’t define herself by the way she looks but by qualities that make her a intelligent, strong and responsible woman.
I will let my daughter do whatever her heart wants. I will support her and guide her and give her all the knowledge that I have because I want her to succeed in whatever she loves.
Who can describe the transports of a beam truly parental on beholding a daughter shoot up like some fair and modest flower, and acquire, day after day, fresh beauty and growing sweetness, so as to fill every eye with pleasure and every heart with admiration?
To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter.
Death has its revelations: the great sorrows which open the heart open the mind as well; light comes to us with our grief . As for me, I have faith; I believe in a future life. How could I do otherwise? My daughter was a soul; I saw this soul. I touched it, so to speak.
Our daughters are the most precious of our treasures, the dearest possessions of our homes and the objects of our most watchful love.
We gotta start teaching our daughters to be somebodies instead of somebody’s.
My daughter is the biggest gift; I’ve said it so many times and it sounds like a cliche, but the thing about being a parent is when you think you’ve cracked it, and you’re on top of your game, they change again and you have to catch up and adjust. I feel such a responsibility to instill good values in her, to be polite, to have discipline.
Women are in a position now to voice their opinion… women are getting empowered. The more power they get, the more voice they get to shift certain things around. Now I have a daughter, I understand. When I didn’t have a daughter, I didn’t understand.
I’ve come to understand that art is awesome and beautiful because it’s a reflection of life – but it’s just a reflection, and the real thing is my daughter.
What’s important for my daughter to know is that… if you are fortunate to have opportunity, it is your duty to make sure other people have those opportunities as well.
A daughter is a miracle that never ceases to be miraculous… full of beauty and forever beautiful… loving and caring and truly amazing.
The thing I’m the most proud of in my personal life is that my daughter actually thinks that I’m fabulous.
The more a daughter knows the details of her mother’s life… the stronger the daughter.
They both began to giggle and then…fell into a side-splitting round of laughter, the cleansing, complete sort of laughter only a mother and daughter can share.
The relationship between parents and children, but especially between mothers and daughters, is tremendously powerful, scarcely to be comprehended in any rational way.
I tell my daughter every morning, ‘Now, what are the two most important parts of you?’ And she says, ‘My head and my heart.’
Mothers and daughters together are a powerful force to be reckoned with.
Patience, my daughter, learn patience, and life will be easier.
So, after much observation, I realized that our daughters needed the same things we lacked in our younger years…wisdom. Without wisdom we continue to blunder through life repeating the same mistakes.
Who can describe the transports of a beam truly parental on beholding a daughter shoot up like some fair and modest flower, and acquire, day after day, fresh beauty and growing sweetness, so as to fill every eye with pleasure and every heart with admiration?
To my daughter: Never forget that I love you. Life is filled with hard times and good times. Learn from everything you can. Be the woman I know you can be.
Flavia Medrut is a freelance writer, researcher and part-time psychologist. She believes music, long walks and a good sense of humor are imperative in keeping one’s sanity.
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