Don't Walk in Mommy's Shoes


Last night baby girl slipped her little feet into the shoes I'd just kicked off.  

I was tickled.  

And a little scared at the same time.  

Raising a girl is different than raising boys. I find myself holding her tighter and guarding her more. Like any mother, I'm protective (and more often than not--over-protective.)

I've walked in my shoes for more decades than I care to admit. And I've had my share of pain, heartbreak and disappointment. I've not spoken up when I should have. I've let opportunities pass me by that I should have grabbed. I don't want any of that for her.

Of course, this is all a part of living. But I pray for a smoother road for this little girl. One that's not paved with so much heartbreak and disappointment. And when it does come, because it will, my hope is that she's not crushed by it. That it strengthens her instead of making her bitter.

I pray that she comes to me for the wisdom that I do hold. For a shoulder to cry on when needed and for someone to look up to who's traveled some of the paths she may travel.

She walked in my shoes last night. But my hope is that she stands proudly on her own two feet and in her own truth. And that she blazes her own spectacular trail.