#6: the day the music died.

I’ve slipped just a bit in my attempt for 7 blogs in 7 days, but I will come through.  This is number 6, so you can bet it all on the one that says there’s another coming soon.

As a father of 3 (and soon to be 4), I watch my children in multi-faceted ways.  I am striving to observe, to realize that a moment holds infinite gifts for those who are grasping for the very things that could, if allowed , just as easily slip away unnoticed.  The act of parenting is not merely a role in which I give– although, most certainly, for seasons this truth can be obscured by the large allotment of time required for these tiny creatures just to exist.

I am also a recipient from the ones I helped form.  A learner from the knee-high teachers right under my nose.

I, admittedly, too often miss the lessons as I rush off to something I deem more urgent or important.  But there are other times, when I am in the moment, and I see things from their perspective; things that shatter and reform my own or just recall, with nostalgia, my own forgotten innocence.

This week, I watched as the world crept into our home.  It was a small thing-just a seed, but I know that seeds become oaks.  I’ll be accused of mountain-making from mole hills by those readers who choose not to comment, but it was a big deal to her dad….and this is her dad’s blog.

Our little family was gathered in a tiny pizza joint in a middle-of-nowhere town, on our way back from an adventure.  Someone in this particular joint had decided it would be a good idea to post the crayon colorings of various children who had come seeking pizza & busied themselves with coloring while the pies were prepared.  Our waiter politely asked Hazel if she would like crayons so she could partake, and she excitedly obliged.

Not two seconds into her scribbly mess, she looked up at the other 4 pictures hanging on the wall- then down at her own bare page.  The other art bore the names and ages of the kids- all much older than she;  one said 7, the others I can’t recall, but they were all a cut markedly above her 2 year old means.  She repeated this series of looking to & fro twice more, then looking at me said, “I can’t”.

Who told her that theirs was better?
Where did she learn to compare herself and come up short?

The answer bothers me most.  No one.
Although, I’ll spill their blood if you prove to me otherwise.  We are fed insecurity and insufficiency from the day we breathe- or at least by age 2 apparently.  And I mourn it.  This is the same girl who has never shied from anything; never hinted that she might not measure up to someone else’s definition.

But here’s what I want her to know, and I hope she one day reads this- when maybe I’m long gone or just more grey.  Any definition of beauty that requires measuring up is just a lie.  It starts with insufficient scribbles and never looks back- swallowing actual beauty in its feign pursuit.

Scribble all you want, and know that your worth is long settled- before you ever picked up the page.