Saturday, November 9, 2013

Something So Simple

Not too very long after this blog went live (literally just a handful of hours), I had the opportunity to make a choice between my old way of viewing things and the new path my feet are set on.  I haven't walked far enough in this journey to not be tempted to jump back across the fork in the road to what is familiar.  Namely, in this instance, warranted and justifiable frustration that is accompanied most often by blustering and loud outburst of some sort.  And it was all thanks to my sweet baby girl. 


 

Cute isn't she? All smiles and sweetness looking right into the camera on a sunny day.  Ahh...I love these moments.  And I am very glad I have captured so many on film and in my memory. 

She does not always look at me like this.  Particularly when we are selecting clothes on a school morning.  Something about picking out an outfit for the day brings out the foot-stompin' crazy in her.  To be clear, we have tried picking everything out the in advance.  It doesn't seem to make much of a difference. 

The problem comes in when she is told to wear pants (primarily on days that she has a PE rotation).  Telling her ahead of time does no good.  She still winds up a heap of hot mess in the floor somewhere in our house. 

And it DRIVE ME BANANAS.  Honestly, part of it is that I just want her to be obedient.  But, after taking the time to think about what the issue really is, it boils down to this:

"But, I am not pretty in pants".

That one little statement makes me all the more determined for her to put the pants on.  There is very little chance after those words flow out of those 5 year old lips that another outfit will be selected.  Period.

"But, I am not pretty in pants".

It floors me every time she says it.  Is she really old enough to be processing things this way?  Has marketing and these kiddie shows that are so mature beyond their audience getting to her already?  Telling her the way things work in this world?

My admission about making her wear pants may seem like I am going overboard to some - maybe even most people.  (Definitely to her sweet grandmother.) But I don't feel like I have a choice.  Here's why.

It is my job as her mama to help her as she begins to develop her view of herself.  I am charged with this and believe that I will be held accountable for it as a part of the sum total of my motherhood when I stand before the Lord someday.  Thankfully, He is gracious, good and patient seeing as how I struggle with being successful at so many parts of this mothering thing.

My point is that it is important for me to begin now reinforcing that clothes and looks and so many other things are not truly a part what makes her beautiful. They can make you feel prettier, sure.  I will agree with that.  I understand that she loves frilly, sparkly, princess things.  It's wonderful that she enjoys being feminine and girly.  That's important too.

However, it can't be a major part of where she derives her feelings of worth - even at this young age.  She has to learn to believe the truth -- it's how God made her and put her together that makes her so amazingly and unchangingly beautiful.  It's the things He has planned for her to do in this life that makes her special.

Just as a side note:  the very morning that this post came from had a lot of fussing over black pants.  When we pulled up to school, Catie's principal was standing out front.  My girl loves this sweet lady and admires her very much already even though we are only a little over 9 weeks into school.  She is standing there in the same color shirt and pants that Catie's in!  What a great moment God gave us in the car to talk quickly about how lovely Mrs. H looked in her outfit!  He had such sweet, wonderful timing, doesn't He?

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.  Proverbs 31:29-31

That's the bottom line.  It's pretty counter cultural in our American society when you really think about it.  So, call me a rebel.  This rebel has a cause and she is so worth it.

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